


It’s the Holiday Season

by SixthNight



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Minor Violence, New Year's Eve, Romance, Santa is a Summon, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, ShinraHoliday2020, Shower Sex, Snowed In, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixthNight/pseuds/SixthNight
Summary: A collection of ficlets and one-shots to celebrate the holidays in Shinra fashion. Inspired by Shinra Holiday 2020 prompts 🎄Guide:Chapter 1: Elena bakes cookies for the team.Chapter 2: Tseng and Aerith exchange holiday gifts (Tseng/Aerith)Chapter 3: Rude encounters a haunting vision in the alleys of Sector 8. (Rude/Cissnei)Chapter 4: Rufus spends the holidays snowed in with some unexpected company (Rufus/Tifa).Chapter 5: A holiday family dinner with the Turks and Rufus is underway and Reno has a question.Chapter 6: A competition of toasts leads to a revelation. (Reno/Elena)(NSFW)Chapter 7: Vincent brings a date to the Shinra New Year’s Eve Party. (VinTi)
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough/Tseng, Cissnei/Rude (Compilation of FFVII), Elena/Reno (Compilation of FFVII), Tifa Lockhart/Rufus Shinra, Tifa Lockhart/Vincent Valentine
Comments: 35
Kudos: 64





	1. Bake It ‘till You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> This first entry is what happens when I hear the prompt: **Bake It ‘till You Make It**. I do apologize, sometimes I write ridiculous things.

The early morning hour still tugs at the edges of Reno’s mind as he shuffles through the conference room doors. Of course, Rude is already waiting at the massive table, his gloved fingers drumming softly on the surface. When the door clicks shut, Rude’s eyes swing his way behind ever-present shades. A nod is all the greeting Reno receives.

“Remind me again why we’re here this early,” Reno quips, the timbre of his voice still a few octaves lower. “Oh, and while we’re at it, remind me why in the hell we’re here this early the day before a holiday,”

Rude shrugs his shoulders and opens his mouth to answer at the exact moment Tseng breezes through the door, stopping any reply. Reno offers a quick glance over his shoulder toward the man responsible for this meeting. He really shouldn’t supply Tseng with a withering glare, but he does it before he can stop himself.

The corner of Tseng’s mouth tugs slightly, inching toward a smirk. Reno wonders what there is to smirk about, but the thought vanishes when Elena trudges in on Tseng’s heels carrying a rectangular object covered in foil. The reflective material bounces white light from the fluorescents overhead.

As Reno huffs into a seat across from Tseng, he drawls, “What’cha got there, Laney?”

Elena fixes him with a scowl and heaves the item onto the table with a clattering _thud_. Tseng’s brows lift almost imperceptibly as he appraises the foil now sitting askew.

Reno reaches for the foil as Elena sinks into a chair. Rude shifts forward, curiosity edging into his features when Reno looks his way.

“The sooner we get started,” Tseng interrupts, clearing his throat as he sets a leather folio on the table, “the sooner we can get out of here.”

But Reno is far too curious to wait for the end of the meeting. He flips the foil over, revealing a tray of cookies. His brows furrow with confusion until realization dawns. The price of losing a bet with him the other day—solstice cookies baked just for him because he knows how much Elena hates domestic tasks.

“Happy Solstice,” Elena says, her tone saccharine. He can almost hear the _motherfucker_ she wants to throw in at the end.

A smirk blooms on his lips. “Laney, you shouldn’t have.”

Tseng is the picture of cool, composed confusion. He’s used to the pranks, to an extent, and the way the three of them often act like siblings in the office, but Reno bets he isn’t used to seeing a plate of home-baked cookies show up on the conference room table in the office of trained killers. It paints a very odd picture, to be sure. Even stranger still is the fact that they seem to be for Reno specifically.

Rude breaks the somewhat loaded silence. “What the...” As he steals a cookie from the tray, he holds it up and gingerly turns it over in his hand.

Reno bounces his gaze from the cookie to Elena, who is grinning like a self-satisfied cat.

“I said _solstice_ cookies,” Reno reminds her.

“These are festive,” she retorts. “See?” She holds up another cookie and points to the tiny frosted stars and sprinkles in the shape of holly with leaves that decorate it.

The decorations aren’t the issue; that lies in the shape of the cookies. Reno plucks one from the tray, the shape of it distinct. Tseng looks moments away from losing his calm. Spread across the plate are cookies in four shapes. Guns, grenades, blades, and something else.

The cookie in his hand, he realizes, looks distinctly like a dick.

With a burst of laughter, he shoots Elena a shrug and takes a bite. Her cackling laugh pulls Rude into the mix as well, he chuckles softly.

Tseng rolls his eyes. “If you three are quite finished, there is a point to this meeting.”

His stern voice pulls the laughter out of the room. But when Reno glances his way, he’s still got just the hint of a smirk. He passes out three paper envelopes, sliding one across the table to each of them.

“And what’ve we got here?” Reno asks, plucking the navy envelope from the table.

“Open it and you’ll see,” Tseng replies.

Rude is the one to say, “Sounds cryptic.”

Elena tears into hers first and for a moment, only the sound of shredding paper fills the room. A midnight-hued Winter Solstice card is nestled inside the envelope, decked out with silver embossed stars. Inside, well wishes for the season and a company check with a sizable holiday bonus.

“Damn.” Reno whistles. 

Elena’s cheeks flush slightly. “This is generous.”

“You can thank Rufus,” is all that Tseng offers.

The appearance of a knowing smile says that this, in fact, does have a little to do with their boss. More than he’s letting on, anyway. Reno wonders if he pushed for this bonus.

Before anyone else can speak, Tseng rises from the chair. He pauses, lifting his folio from the table. “The company holiday party is tonight, as you know. I don’t expect you to work a full day before that. Take it easy and I’ll see you all later.” He starts to turn for the door when he adds, “And try not to spoil lunch by eating too many dicks. We’re going to Arvo, my treat.”

Tseng sweeps from the room leaving the three of them to stare at each other. Reno isn’t sure he heard that right until Rude, of all people, howls in laughter.


	2. Sweater Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As winter chills the streets of Midgar, Tseng brings Aerith a holiday treat to lift her spirits. Little does he know, she has a gift for him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just think these two are neat. I’ve shipped them for a while now and am thrilled for any excuse to try my hand at writing them. The Shinra Holiday 2020 prompt **Sweater Weather** seemed a perfect opportunity for some Tserith 🧶 Hope you enjoy!

The sun dips beyond the horizon, beneath the walls that surround the under city. A brisk wind sweeps over the barrier and through the streets, pushing out any warmth the last drops of daytime left behind. Bits of confetti in the shape of silver stars skitter across the ground, drawing his eye.

Tseng admires the spirit of the slums sometimes.

Gazing up from the confetti, he notices there are festive sweeps of garland wrapped around support beams and twinkling lights hanging from eves. These decorations mark the approach of Winter Solstice, they bring with them warmth and light. The hope this season carries is palpable even in what should be a hopeless part of the city.

He tucks his chin again, slipping his hands into his pockets as he continues. Much has changed since last winter’s season. For them, anyway. His thoughts snag on the last time he saw Zack—several seasons ago—and the request that was made. _Look after her_ , he’d urged. He had little way of knowing that Tseng was already tasked with keeping an eye on Aerith.

Since then, there have been times he’s felt more like a courier than a Turk. Each time he’d check in, there would be more letters Aerith wanted him to forward to Zack. Last winter, the letters were bedecked in flowery decorations that signaled hope still alive in her heart. Shortly after, the number of letters dwindled. Nearly four years. Eighty-seven letters. He’s been with her through it all, but this season she seems hopeless. There haven’t been any letters in a couple of weeks. So much has changed.

While he seldom crosses the line of professionalism, this year it seems a necessary risk. He can’t bear to see her so downtrodden and while he cannot bring her any good news of Zack, he can bring her something that might cheer her. He’s scoured far and wide, finally locating what he thinks will lift her spirits. With hope, his fingers brush over the pouch hidden away in his pocket.

The church grows on the boundary of the sector as he approaches. He’s surprised to find there are no lights or garland to be seen here on the facade, another sign of how she’s feeling. His shoes scuff against the concrete steps as he climbs them. He’s not even sure she’ll be here this late, but he’s willing to take a chance. He doesn’t want Elmyra to know he’s brought Aerith a gift.

As he pushes through the parted doors, the balm of flowers drifts over on a warm draft. His eyes adjust to the flickering light of candles dotted here and there, all around the sanctuary. He expects to find Aerith near the flowers if she’s here. He almost misses her until he spots subtle movement in his peripheral.

She sighs and her voice carries across the space softly. “That you, Tseng?”

The ghost of a smile sweeps across his lips. Her ability to sense him is uncanny.

Tseng starts forward across the room. Aerith is perched on an old pew, her back to him. He clears his throat. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Why, because _you’re_ supposed to be the sneaky one?” she quips.

He wants to laugh. Normally, he would. But there’s enough edge to her voice that he suppresses the urge.

She speaks again before he can reply. “I’m fine. No strange visitors or run-ins of any kind. Duty accomplished, you can go.”

She’s in rare form tonight. His mouth opens and closes. That icy composure he relies on slips out of his grasp for a moment. “A-are you all right?”

There’s a beat of silence while she likely considers the answer to that. He waits, thinking how strange it feels to be the one who is off balance. The upper hand is usually his; he’s the one who dismisses people, not the other way around. Everything in him wants to fight for that control, but he knows it will do him no good here.

Aerith is one of the few people he does not understand well. She is a web of complexities, a puzzle he desperately wants to piece together so he can truly see her, except he’s missing a crucial portion. She is the one thing in his world he has precious little control over, which is unsettling given their roles.

“I’m...I don’t know what I am, Tseng.”

The sadness in her voice is like a sharp blade, cutting off his musings. He steps closer and sinks onto the pew beside her. “Is this about Zack?”

Aerith sucks in a breath as if he’s dealt her a blow to the chest. “It is. And it isn’t.”

He inclines his head toward her. “Sometimes I think you enjoy speaking in riddles.”

“Anything to goad you,” she says sweetly. Her shoulder connects with his in a brief show of playfulness but, given her dour state, it falls flat.

“You do make an art of getting under my skin,” he admits.

Aerith shifts to look at him, maybe a little startled by that. One side of her face is alight with the dancing flames and the other is hidden in shadow. Her beauty takes him by surprise then but he banishes the prickling that washes over his nerves. There is an eight-year gap between them and he is her guardian, in a way. The last thing he should be thinking about is the curve of her lip or the spark behind her turquoise irises.

“Nothing to say?” she asks.

Had he missed something she said? “Sorry, what?”

“Spacing out on me, huh?” She says it like she’s disappointed.

“It’s been a trying day,” he offers.

“I said that I don’t think I can keep hoping.”

“Ah. No one would blame you, you know. It has been a long time.”

“I know,” she replies as she swings her legs, boots scuffing the floor. “But I don’t know how to let go of those hopes. Those silly, girlish dreams.”

“They’re not silly,” he insists, even if he doesn’t believe his own words.

She snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re the romantic sort.”

For some reason, it wounds him. “You wouldn’t believe it?”

Her focus never left him, but she regards him more thoroughly now. “Mm, I have my doubts.”

He can’t help a grin. “Doubt all you like.” He pauses, then a comment slips past his defenses. “I can be plenty romantic, I’ll have you know.”

Aerith giggles, a light and refreshing sound after so many tense moments. “Oh yeah? What, when you’re working a target?”

She’s not wrong. Still, he says, “Not _only_ then.”

“Uh-huh.” She gives him a disbelieving look.

A flush spreads down his neck, his suit becoming far too warm. He changes the subject back to her. “So, why do you think your hopes are silly?”

Aerith glances away then, her fidgeting coming to a halt. She huffs. “Because they’re not my destiny. I can feel that now.”

The answer unnerves him. He tries to search her face, though he can only see her profile. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she assures him hastily. “I just don’t think it’s meant to be.”

He knows she’s covering up the true meaning of the words, but he lets it slide. He’s not sure what else to say, so after a stretch of silence, he reroutes the conversation. “I brought you something.”

At this, her gaze swings back his way. “Really?”

He nods. “A gift for the Winter Solstice.”

A smile finally finds her lips. She searches him, likely looking for whatever he’s brought. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the velvet pouch. He can see speculation light up her features as he holds it out. She lifts a hand and he places the object gently in her palm. Her fingers brush the underside of his hand, sending a jolt up his arm.

If she notices, she doesn’t say. Instead, she unties the braided rope holding the pouch closed. The gift slips into her other hand as she tilts the pouch. Tiny seeds glow in the candlelight. Aerith inspects them curiously.

“Seeds?”

“A rare flower from Wutai. You’ll have to grow them to see what kind,” he says with a smirk. He doesn’t want her to ruin the surprise by looking them up.

Aerith bounces a little where she’s seated and gingerly places the seeds back in their container. She’s wrapping her arms around him before he can object, an awkward sort of side hug, but warmth spreads from each place she’s pressed against him nonetheless.

“Thank you. I needed something to look forward to,” she says in open honesty.

His chest grows tight with her admission. The rest of him is tense, inelegant. One arm drifts up and he finds his hand patting her shoulder. Aerith laughs again, probably in amusement over his awkwardness.

“I’m going to plant them,” she declares.

He extricates himself from her arms and dusts his jacket. “It’s not the right season.”

Aerith glances at him askance. “I have my ways.”

Of course, she does.

“Come on.” She’s pulling him from the pew before he can answer. “Besides, I have something for you, too.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, Mom isn’t home. She’s on a date tonight.”

The news lifts his brows and makes him forget that she’s just admitted to having something for him.

“Don’t,” she chides.

“Don’t what?” He inquires as she turns to drag him across the sanctuary. He allows her to do it, following closely on her heels.

“Look surprised that she dates.”

“It’s just that—”

“She’s older? You’re not exactly a spring Chocobo yourself,” she says in a choked tone that suggests she might be on the verge of laughing at his expense.

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “But that wasn’t it.”

“What then?” she asks as they slip from the church into the night air.

“I just didn’t know.”

“Some surveillance you Turks have going on.”

He’ll have to check in with Rude and Reno, see why he wasn’t apprised of the situation. But he won’t show her any more of this crack. Instead, he says, “I’m only thirty, you know.”

Aerith finally drops his wrist as she glances his way. They’re halfway across the clearing that leads from the church now. “Thirty? Ugh. _Ancient_.” There’s a smirk on her lips.

“That would be you,” he retorts. It catches her enough off-guard that she stops in her tracks. After a moment, she cackles.

“Tseng!” She pushes his shoulder with her palm. “You made a joke.”

He isn’t sure whether to be insulted. “Yes, I do that from time to time.”

She resumes her pace, a smile still on her lips. The sorrow he sensed from her earlier seems to have vanished, or at least she has buried it deep beneath the cover of wit and playfulness. “You’re really only thirty?” she finally asks.

The topic of age hasn’t come up before, though he knows the date of her birth and a myriad of other details she’s never told him. He cocks a brow. “How old did you think I was?”

“I dunno.” She steps around crumbled bits of buildings. “You look young, but you seem much older.”

That would be his sense of duty and the air of professionalism he carries if he had to guess. Few see the dry sense of humor, the kindness he once embodied but has lost to years of dark deeds and death.

“Just eight years older,” she comments thoughtfully.

It strikes him strangely that she bothers to point out the difference in their age. “And here you thought I was what? Forty?”

Aerith snickers, her breath clouding into the air. “Something like that.”

Tseng smiles to himself as they work their way through the rest of the sector in comfortable silence. Following a path he has tread many times, they snake up into the clearing where Elmyra’s house rests. He’s still amazed every time he sets foot here. The waterfalls, the greenery, a quaint home. Nothing about it belongs here beneath the plate. Yet, here it is.

Aerith leads him up onto the top floor where she pushes out onto a balcony. He hasn’t been up here before and it surprises him how lovely the view is. He can see the expanse of their property, lit up with decorations for the season. Fields of flowers that grow despite the frost, which gives him pause. If not for the plate, he thinks, there would be a sea of stars overhead.

The sound of Aerith rooting around in a cabinet snaps his attention back to her. She holds a small set of fiber pots meant to be planted in the ground after sprouting. She’s built a makeshift greenhouse here and has it set up for winter. He watches her work as she plants the seeds, admiring the way she digs into the soil without hesitation and fills the tiny pots. Where he thought she might use tools, she uses only her bare hands. When she is finished, crescents of dirt sit beneath her nails and she’s smudged a spot of earth over her cheek.

The urge to brush away the soil ripples up his arm, nearly forcing him into action. He shoves the temptation away.

“There,” she says with a grin. She swipes the back of her hand over the spot of soil, clearing it. “They’ll be safe and warm until spring. I’m sure they’ll sprout quickly, but it’ll be a while before they bloom.”

He nods in agreement. “You’ll have to be patient.”

Her eyes narrow. “You know that’s not my strong suit.”

Does he ever. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

“Some things are.”

The reply works its way into his mind and he isn’t sure if she’s only speaking about the flowers anymore. He decides there is little else she could mean.

She holds up a finger. “Let me grab your gift.”

Aerith disappears into the house and he approaches the balcony rail. He pivots to lean his back against it, lounging on an elbow. Many things vie for his attention, his mind racing with the words they’ve exchanged. She’s warmed to him over the years and he’s seen her friendly, but never quite like this. He wonders if she’s just compensating for letting him see that deep sadness earlier or if there could be more to it. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t developed feelings for her over the last few months.

Tseng tries to pinpoint when that change occurred. When things in his mind crossed a line. He recalls how much Aerith has changed in the years Zack’s been gone. Where she was once closer to the silly, girlish dreamer she described in the church, she has become an intuitive, nurturing, and whimsical woman.

When he’s shown up after a particularly ugly day, she seems to have this way of comforting him without realizing she’s even doing so, though he hasn’t even shared that anything is amiss. Perhaps rarer still, she is able to slip beneath the mask he wears to see the man underneath. The one he hardly ever shows to anyone else. And maybe it’s the closeness of spending years together, but if he’s honest, it’s more than that. Aerith is one of the very few people that he cares deeply for.

As if on cue, she reappears. Her eyes rove his relaxed form, down and back up. Something passes over her features, but she doesn’t say anything as she meets his gaze. She’s holding a slim box wrapped in silver paper and tied with an indigo ribbon, he notices. It seems far too lavish to be for him. He hesitates even as she holds it out.

“For you.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he replies.

“And you didn’t have to get _me_ anything, but you did.” One hand goes to her hip as she pushes the gift toward him again. “Just open it.”

Tseng takes the box and unties the ribbon. She fidgets impatiently and steals the silky material away once it starts to fall from the box. When did she get so close? He shifts a little, slipping a finger beneath the wrapping paper as he pries away the tape.

“You’re so methodical,” Aerith says, her breath washing over his shoulder as she stands closer still.

“And you are impatient,” he reminds her, the words coming out strained.

She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet while he removes the paper without tearing it. Just as he looks for somewhere to set it down, she snags it from his hand as well. She balls up the paper, tossing it and the ribbon into a bin. He notices the way she bites her lip expectantly, waiting for him to open the box itself.

While it’s tempting to draw it out, he doesn’t figure he should. Though the thought does make him smirk. He lifts the lid and Aerith reaches over to pull tissue paper away. Tseng chuckles when she crumbles it up as well and volleys it across to join the rest of the wrapping paper.

Inside the box, something soft is folded. He lifts it while she grabs the box, freeing his hands to inspect the gift. He unfolds what looks to be a handmade sweater, maybe a bit small for him and definitely something Reno would haze him for wearing.

Words flee as he takes in the chunky midnight yarn and, of all things, a wintry _Moogle_ dancing across the front with a few falling stars. He’s not sure if this is a joke or if she’s seriously intending for him to wear this.

“I made it myself,” she seems to boast.

Still, no words. He turns the fabric over, blinking far too many times for her not to notice. Silence stretches and sweat beads on his hairline. “Thank you,” he finally manages.

That’s when she cracks. Laughter bursts from her and he’s relieved to hear it. He’s less relieved when she says, “You _have_ to wear it.”

He fixes her with a withering look. “Now?”

“Yes, _now_. It took me weeks to make this.”

He wants to ask her why she bothered, but he doesn’t have the heart. Except that she’s still laughing in receding waves, which means this must be a joke.

“ _Please_ ,” she begs. Her eyes are liquid, tears from the fits of laughter gathering in their depths. She’s impossible to resist.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

Tseng unbuttons his jacket, shedding it quickly and draping it over the rail. Aerith snatches it up, holding it to her chest as she faces him. She watches with delight as he lifts the sweater, but then she frowns.

“I don’t think it’ll fit over your shirt,” she informs him.

Heat creeps up his neck. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t want to ruin it, do you?”

He’s fairly certain he wouldn’t mind if he did. She just keeps staring at him with this strange look until she reaches over the sweater in his hands, her fingers brushing his neck. It takes him a moment to realize she’s gone for his tie and makes quick work of loosening it. Before he can stop her, she’s pulling the fabric free of his collar. And unless he wants to find out if she’ll strip his shirt for him as well, he knows he should oblige her.

 _And yet_.

And yet nothing, he reminds himself. Beating her to the buttons, he slips them out with deft fingers. This is so indecent, so egregiously unprofessional, he wants to write _himself_ up for breaking all the rules. He curses internally even while he kicks the shirt back with his shoulders, pulling it to the elbows.

Aerith’s gaze snags on his chest, trails down his abdomen. He curses _that_ soundly, too.

“Definitely not an old man, I see that now,” she remarks in a tone he can’t read.

He actually growls—despite the fact that he appreciates the compliment buried in her words—as he hands her his shirt and pulls on the sweater. The yarn is soft and a little scratchy against his skin and just as she said, it likely wouldn’t have fit over his shirt. He begins to wonder if she did that on purpose. She’s been pushing boundaries with him for a while now, he realizes.

Aerith’s hand goes to her lips which are a thin line at this point.

“Just go ahead and laugh.” He is thoroughly over being the object of her amusement.

“It actually looks cute,” she admits with a smile.

“Sure it does.”

“No, really,” Aerith insists.

Tseng eyes her with suspicion. At this point, he can think of only one thing to do to regain that control that he lost earlier in the church. He must unnerve her as much as she has rattled him.

“If you say so,” he relents. “And I do appreciate your efforts.”

With that, she furrows her brows. He stays any inquiry by closing the short distance between them. He drops his chin, his lips brushing against her cheek in a caress of a kiss. “Thank you,” he tells her with his mouth against the shell of her ear. A shiver runs through her and he knows his mission is accomplished. Cool air fills the gap between them as he backs off.

Bewilderment sweeps her pretty face for a fleeting moment until she snaps out of it and shakes her head. “No big deal.” She says the words well enough, but she’s all scuffing boots and fidgeting hands.

A wicked smirk spreads across his face. “It’s late. I should get going.”

Aerith nods in agreement, finding her composure. “Thank you for the seeds, I’m excited to see what they’ll grow into.”

“You’re welcome.”

When she finally meets his gaze, they hold the connection a moment longer than he’s used to. He needs to leave before he does anything he’ll regret. He brushes a hand across her shoulder as he passes her, willing himself through the door and down the stairs.

Logically, he knows this shouldn’t have happened. And maybe it won’t happen again. But he doesn’t regret it, at least not until he walks into the office wearing that ridiculous Moogle sweater which earns him a chorus of laughter from Rude and Reno.

 _Shit_. He’d been just flustered enough to relish his triumph while walking out her door, leaving his shirt and jacket behind.

Reno asks between laughs, “Is there some ugly solstice sweater party we don’t know about?”

Rude really loses it then.

Tseng just scowls.


	3. Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rude encounters a haunting vision in the alleys of Sector 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shinra Holiday 2020 prompt **Ghosts of Christmas Past**. A truly rarepair here, just a dark little snippet.

The warning blares into his earpiece like a flare into the night sky. A Turk is outnumbered. He listens to the tones, reading the code hidden beneath each divergent sound. He’s the closest friendly.

Rude dashes across the plaza and through the sector, heading for the dark alley he’s already pictured in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t have time to be worried, he just hopes he makes it in time to assist. The soles of his shoes scrape the street as he skids to a halt at the mouth of the alleyway.

He pulls at the wrist of his gloves, readying for battle. The leather creaks as his pupils dilate, adjusting to the darkness beyond the reach of street lights. But where he expected the chaotic sounds of a fight, it is eerily quiet. His vision strains.

Bodies are _everywhere_. Blood runs through the channels between bricks like a river of red.

The sound of steel against masonry catches his attention, drawing his gaze from the gore to a single figure walking down the center of the alley and into the hazy light. Walking may not be the right word for it. No, not with the sway of her hips, the proud jut of her chin.

That is one hell of a swagger, if anything.

Cissnei is dragging her shuriken through the mess she’s made, the tip of her tongue worrying a split on her upper lip. He imagines the iron zing of her blood and heat washes over him. Two things occur to him in that moment—first, she’s clearly handled this, and, second, she is the absolute picture of violent beauty right now. Viciously alluring.

“Looks like you don’t need my help,” he points out, his cool tone a contrast to the things he’s feeling.

A strange little giggle flees her lips. “Didn’t think I could take them all, but I guess I got a little carried away.”

An understatement, if he’s ever heard one. He smirks. “I’ll say.”

She’s still advancing even through the exchange of words, purposeful steps bringing her fully into the light streaming in from the street. Cuts and fresh bruises pepper her pretty face, waves of cinnamon strands sticking to a trickle of blood running down her left temple. There’s wildfire in her brown eyes.

With a sigh, she comes to a stop just in front of him. She tilts her head in a way that reminds him of a predator who has just feasted on her prey. “Just need to make sure no one sees them before they fade away into the lifestream.”

He nods in affirmation, glancing past her at the carnage. It shouldn’t be long now.

After a beat, a haunting smile crosses her lips. “In a few minutes, they’ll be nothing but the ghosts of Christmas past.”

Right, the holiday is just a few days away. The corner of his mouth twitches. The morbid sentiment sinks in like a punch to the gut. He knows they all make jokes like this as a way of coping with their work, but he’s never heard it put quite like that. He can’t help a soft chuckle.

Cissnei laughs in a way that draws his eyes back to her. It’s sexy and unapologetic. He risks a glance at her lips, full and shimmering in the soft light from when she licked them. The cut has stopped bleeding and he wonders if kissing her would make it start again.

The idea surprises him, but not by much. They’ve been flirting shamelessly over the last few months whenever they’re alone. Ever since he started trying to get rid of lingering thoughts of Chelsea. But it wouldn’t be fair to use Cissnei like that.

When he meets her eyes again, they’ve focused on his lips. Maybe she’s thinking of using him as well. Battles like this always demand a release.

She’s on him before he can think any more about it. Her lips crash into his so hard he’s fairly certain it’ll bruise them further. The shuriken clatters to the ground. Hands are snaking up his neck, dragging waves of pleasure with them. He’s gone completely still, tense with the shock that accompanies her touch.

And then it sparks.

One hand brushes through her hair, curving around her right ear. She gasps against his mouth. His opposite fingers dig into her hip, pulling her flush against him. She’s all hard lines and soft swells, a combination that fills his veins with fire.

The kiss grows more urgent by the minute. Her tongue ghosts over his lips and he’s thinking about pushing her against the wall just beyond the shadows of the alley. Instead, his ears pick up approaching footsteps.

Cold, harsh air fills the void she leaves when she backs away. The bodies behind her begin to glow. Reno materializes from the shadows on his left.

“Aw, looks like you two had all the fun without me,” he drawls.

Rude thinks he doesn’t know the half of it.


	4. Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rufus Shinra spends the holidays snowed in at the Icicle Inn Lodge with some unexpected company. For the Shinra Holiday 2020 prompt **Up to Icicle Inn**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. We’ve gone full fluff at this point. I know the other day was the Hallmark Special prompt but uhhh this is probably far more Hallmark-y than my contribution for day three 😂 here’s to RufTi fluff of the holiday variety!

Rufus balances his pen between his thumb and middle finger, tapping it restlessly against the table. His eyes drift to the window where he sees that snow is falling in flurries. There’s no way they’re getting out of here on time.

The conference room nestled in the center of the Icicle Inn Lodge is beginning to feel like a sauna. One of the executives, an over-enthusiastic man with a mustache who runs an emerging solar company bidding on Shinra’s latest project to expand energy options in Edge, has started a blazing inferno in the fireplace. The entire room looks to be on the verge of passing out at any moment. 

He fantasizes about running straight out into the snow when this is over.

It makes little sense that a company specializing in solar might be based in the Icicle Area where the sky looms an imposing shade of grey half the year, but as the executive explains how they’ve sourced materials in this region, it all comes together. Rufus is fascinated by the presentation, but as the pitch wears on the sweltering temperature and the approaching holiday make for easy distractions.

“This all sounds promising,” he cuts in. “Why don’t we break for lunch and meet back here in an hour.” 

The suggestion causes a few murmurs. The executive pales but agrees. “That sounds like a plan.” 

Attendees on both sides of the table begin to shuffle out.

When the flow has trickled down to Shinra staffers, Rufus pulls at his collar. “And will someone please put that fire out, maybe open a window or two?”

His assistant gives him a very sympathetic, very relieved look as she pushes back from the table and goes about doing just that. 

Rufus cracks a smirk. “I understand why he wanted to make it cozy, but boiling us alive isn’t exactly a great way to seal the deal.”

“No, sir. I’d imagine turning us into lobsters wouldn’t be a good look for his company.”

He chuckles, rising from the chair with an indulgent stretch. He flicks his pen onto the table and heads for the door. Tseng falls into step beside him from his post just outside in the hall.

“The weather has taken a turn. We may have to stay longer than anticipated, Mr. President.”

“I figured as much. Hopefully, we won’t be snowed in for the holidays.” The minute he says it, he wants to pull the words back. He’s not superstitious, per se, but something about putting the thought out there makes him think he might come to regret it. 

“That would be unfortunate.”

Rufus nods in agreement, but he’s not so sure he necessarily agrees. Even when his father was alive, holidays seldom meant much, if anything. In fact, what little family he did have tended to turn gift-giving into a competitive, near-violent art form. 

For the past two years, his only tradition has been to spend the eve of the holiday with the Turks and a few close colleagues. He’s thankful for that, but Christmas itself is always a lonely sort of drag. When he looks closely, he thinks he really wouldn’t mind staying up here where at least the atmosphere felt festive. 

They claim a table in the hotel bar, two seats tucked away near the panoramic windows. Snow continues to fall at a dizzying pace, coating the towering evergreen trees just beyond the edge of the property. Frost is gathered in the corners of the panes and peeks overtop the boughs of holly the hotel has strung around the glass. 

“If that keeps up, we’re definitely not going anywhere.”

Tseng looks up from the menu he’s been scanning. “It would certainly make for an uncomfortable flight.”

“Any plans apart from the usual this year?” 

“Not really, sir.”

“At least there won’t be much to ruin, then.” 

Tseng smirks past a noncommittal laugh. “I’m sure the others can manage on their own.”

He grins. “But I will miss them.”

They’ve all grown on him quite a bit since his brush with Geostigma. 

“I actually will, too.”

At this, Rufus laughs. The dynamic is always entertaining, to say the least, and he can never quite tell how much is just Tseng tolerating his Turks as opposed to enjoying their company. Judging by his smile, likely the latter, even if he doesn’t always admit it. 

Over lunch, Rufus fills Tseng in on the details of the meeting just to work through it all. Hearing it again, in his own words, brings some clarity that he values. They’re just about to wrap up when the exterior doors blow open with an icy winter wind.

Snowflakes rush in to melt on the hardwood floor, a few sets of eyes roam that way. The bundled figure in the doorway seems surprised to have made such a dramatic entry. He spots wide eyes over a ridiculously chunky scarf and pink blooming on her cheeks from more than just the cold. There’s something familiar about this person, but he brushes it off in favor of a rye smile. 

“How much do you want to bet she’s from our neck of the woods,” Rufus remarks.

“Mm, fifty gil says that’s probably true.”

“Fifty gil?” His exclamation carries and he continues in a hushed voice, “You forget, I know your salary. That bet says you’re not so sure.”

Tseng calls his bluff. “Fine. A hundred.”

“Pfft.” Rufus chuckles. “Five hundred gil says she’s _actually_ from Edge.”

It’s the only thing that makes sense for someone so covered from head to toe, apart from maybe Costa del Sol. But he doesn’t think anyone from that region would venture this far north in the winter.

Tseng doesn’t bite. “Maybe she just gets cold easily.”

“The people who live here go out in shorts when it’s frigid because they are loons. She’s from Edge.”

He spares another glance toward the door. The person in question has started to shed layers, though her back is turned. After depositing her puffy coat and scarf onto the coat rack, she heads toward the bar. Inspiration strikes. He shouldn’t mess with Tseng this way, but it’s been a _very_ dull morning.

“Fine, we’ll take the gil out of it. Loser has to buy her a drink.” He knows that’ll make Tseng squirm.

Tseng’s lips are a thin line, his eyes unreadable. “How, exactly, do you propose we find out where she’s from to even have a loser or a winner?”

 _That. Right._ “I’ll ask.”

Before Tseng can object, he’s striding for the bar.

He slides up to the counter, perching casually beside the woman. He tries to get a peek without drawing her notice, but she’s looking down at a menu. Her dark hair has fallen forward to pool at her elbows, concealing her profile. 

Rufus pivots, lounging back against the bar. He shrugs at Tseng, who merely looks put out in the calmest of ways. 

The bartender comes to the counter and asks the woman for her order. He checks over his shoulder, assessing her profile now that she’s looking up. That same sense of familiarity runs through his mind. As soon as she gives her selections, he knows he’s heard that voice somewhere. Curiosity soars. 

She orders lunch with a rare gin neat and he has his opening. “Nice choice,” he says when the bartender leaves to put her order into the tablet across the way.

She seems a little startled. “Thank y—”

Her voice cuts off as she turns his way. Recognition flashes in her eyes. He’s pretty sure his jaw goes slack. It’s not often he’s at a loss for words, but silence grips him.

He’s known her most of his life, in the way you can know someone and still have them be a complete stranger. His mind flashes to the old Shinra mansion in Nibelheim. Of summers spent sneaking around to try and play with the local children while his father was distracted. There’s a five-year gap between them so they didn’t hang out much, but he thought she was less annoying than some of the other younger kids. 

Tifa Lockhart is staring back at him.

“Rufus…”

His name rolls off her tongue at the same moment he says hers. An awkward beat of silence passes between them.

He recovers quickly. “What brings you to Icicle Inn?”

Tifa pulls at the sleeves of her cream turtleneck. “I—Business, actually. I’ve got a meeting with a local distiller.”

He’s sure he looks perplexed. “They don’t ship or have a website?” 

She sighs. “They do ship, but they do not have a website. It’s all very bespoke...and now that I’m explaining this, I realize it must sound crazy. To come all this way for liquor, I mean.”

“Do you have a demand for it?” Why does he always have to talk business?

“I do. A couple of regulars who grew up here and have been grumbling about what I carry.”

“Then you’ve got to keep your customers happy.”

“Exactly.”

The conversation sputters, leaving him feeling artless once more.

Tifa scuffs a pair of heavy boots against the floor. “How about you?” 

“Business as well.”

“Ah. Some week to have business in the snowiest place on Gaia.”

“Some week indeed. It seems to be getting worse by the hour. How did you manage to get here?”

“Just barely. The landing was _rough_.”

“The storm was a total surprise, even caught the locals off guard. Tseng tells me we might be stuck here if it doesn’t let up.”

Something like panic crosses her features. “Oh! Hopefully not.”

As if the mention of his name summoned him, Tseng approaches with a curt nod toward Tifa. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I believe your meeting is about to reconvene.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting,” he replies. Rufus dips his chin. “Tifa, lovely to see you well. Good luck with your meeting.”

“Thank you, same to you.”

He throws her a smile and follows Tseng from the room, feeling more than a little peculiar about the entire situation.

\- - -

The storm grows angrier as the day wears on, blanketing every inch of the town in a thick layer of fresh powder. At least the meeting ended well. Were the skies not so moody, he’d be on his way back to Edge to toast his success at his favorite haunt. Instead, he’s taking a bottle of gin with him to an enclosed patio, hoping for a little space away from the crowd that’s packed into the bar.

The glass ceiling is dusted in white; the dark panes creating a barrier to the outdoors are frosted and nearly impossible to see through. But there’s an inviting fire crackling at the center of a slate table, surrounded by cozy chairs and a small couch. The spot looks more than perfect to settle into for the evening and it appears he has the whole place to himself. 

Rufus sinks into the couch, mostly because it faces the sliding glass doors. He arranges his bounty on the side table, pouring a healthy measure. If he’s stranded in this winter wonderland, he’s at least going to make the best of it and celebrate his new deal anyway. 

A couple of drinks in, a blissful glow from the liquor keeps him warmer than the fire. It’s toasty enough he’s glad he left his coat in the room. He’s even rolled up the sleeves of his tailored grey shirt, leaving the top buttons casually undone. He tilts his head back, watching as snow continues to paint the curved roof. It slides off as soon as it becomes heavy, streaking down the wall behind him. The bank beneath it will be massive by morning.

His thoughts drift to his run-in with Tifa. He doesn’t like to think about the past, preferring to keep moving forward, striving for better. But sometimes he can’t help wondering. The last time he saw her, he had just been cured after the Remnants were stopped. Some of the animosity remained and he honestly couldn’t blame her. He _did_ nearly have her executed, as far as she was aware.

Rufus wonders if she saw the ploy, if she realized the sleight of hand that day in Junon. Even if she did, he’s still the face of a company that took _everything_ from her. Most of it before he was at the helm, but that certainly doesn’t excuse him from any responsibility. And while that image of his company has changed, he doesn’t expect to be on friendly terms with her just because they’ve been in each other’s lives on and off since childhood. He’s mostly just confused about the fact that she was kind to him earlier. He guesses that’s just what happens when you have a kind heart. 

Still. Something about it feels strange.

The sound of the sliding doors calls his attention back to the room. His pulse kicks into overdrive when his eyes land on the woman he’s been thinking about. Tifa halts her path as soon as her eyes land on him. He can’t quite read the expression she wears and it's fleeting enough that he doesn’t really try.

She clears her throat. “Sorry, figured this would be a good spot to be alone.”

Rufus wears a smile to cover up his tumultuous thoughts. “Funny, I had the same idea.”

Tifa seems to hover, stuck on the threshold, and possibly caught somewhere between rethinking her plan or just making a run for it. She looks stressed, he realizes. He instantly feels sympathetic. 

“There are plenty of chairs. We can be alone, together.”

She takes a hesitant step, searching his face. 

“If you want,” he adds.

“I-um, that’s okay. I can just…”

Go? She looks a little lost. 

Concern blooms in his chest. “Is everything okay?”

“Well,” she starts, likely weighing whether she wants to answer honestly. She takes one more step. “Not really.”

Rufus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”

“I’m sure you’re in the same boat...with the weather.”

“Ah. You’re stuck, too.”

Tifa nods, worry evident in her eyes. “And of course, I told Barret this would be quick. Now I’m worried I’ll miss the holiday. And the kids...they’ll be so disappointed. _I’m_ disappointed. I should have known better than to come up here this time of year. Random storms are practically a prerequisite for the holidays here.” She takes a breath and lets it out in a huff. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

He’s honestly surprised that she did, but pent up frustration usually needs an outlet. He just happens to be here. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry this is so stressful for you.”

“I’m sure it’s less than convenient for you, as well.”

“I’ll be fine. No one to miss me,” he offers. He hates that it sounds melancholic when he meant it to be light and meaningless, dismissive of her concern. And the minute pity enters her gaze, he hates that even more. It annoys him enough that he surprises himself. “I’ve got a decent bottle of gin if you want a distraction.”

More to his surprise, she finally crosses the room. Tifa snags the bottle from the table, reading the label. “Not bad.”

“There have to be some glasses somewhere around here.”

The effervescent buzz that swims through his head when he stands takes a second to shake off. He runs a hand through his hair, casting a glance around the room. Tifa starts toward one corner, so he heads in the opposite direction. 

A light giggle fills the space a moment later. “I don’t think this is an option.”

Rufus turns her way and she’s holding up a pewter chalice that looks ancient. “Let me guess, covered in dust.” 

In emphasis, she swipes a finger across it and grimaces. “Pretty sure they haven’t done much in the way of maintenance out here.”

“I’m fairly certain they haven’t had so many guests at once.” He hazards a guess they’re overwhelmed, if anything. He spots a shelf in the back corner.

“Storms will do that.”

“Think I’ve got something.” He lifts a curtain that covers the bottom shelves. A row of glasses and other pieces of serveware wait. “Thankfully, it looks clean,” he adds as he plucks a tumbler from the shelf.

“I feel a little bad raiding the place like this,” Tifa admits with a shy smile.

“I’m sure they won’t mind. They seem to have expected guests to wander out here judging by the fire.”

She meets him back at the couch, tucking strands of hair behind one ear. “I wonder why no one else has found this spot.”

Rufus shrugs and pours her a drink. “They lack the curiosity to find their own way, so they seek the more obvious choice.”

Tifa gives him a look, both brows raised. He realizes she likely wasn’t looking for a serious reply. Especially one that isn’t exactly polite. 

“You were never one to mince words,” she remarks. 

So she remembers their past. He hands off the glass and sinks back into the couch, unsure how to reply to that. “You know me.” It’s a weak offering, but all he has.

Tifa perches on the edge of the cushion next to him, strangely. She’s turned in a little, her knees edging closer. “Not in the least, anymore. I honestly did wonder how you turned out though...you know, after everything.”

Rufus polishes off his drink and pours himself another. He surmises that she’s hinting at Nibelheim. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to utter the name. He’s in no hurry to dust off those cobwebs, either. “I was young, I hardly remember,” he lies. 

Tifa seems to shake it off easily, but he can see curiosity hidden beneath the expression she’s wearing. He needs a diversion. 

“Was your meeting today?”

She hesitates but doesn’t press. “It was. Hence being a quick thing. Until it wasn’t.”

“Did you at least strike a deal?”

Her face lights up. “I did! I admit I was skeptical given their business model. But they have such unique blends that I think it makes them play things close to the vest.”

“Wouldn’t want the competition to get a hold of that with something as simple as browsing a website, I suppose.”

“Yeah, that’s my guess. I’m excited to get the first few bottles home, see what everyone thinks.”

“I’m glad it worked out. Maybe I’ll stop by the bar sometime and see what all the hype is about.”

Tifa is the picture of confusion, likely trying to decide if she should allow that or discourage it. He knocks back another drink and refills. 

“Sorry, it’s just…” She takes a swig of her own. An unexpected smile graces her lips. “Oh my gods, this is amazing.”

“Have you not tried it before?” He doesn’t comment that she seemed to know it when she read the label. _Nice save, Lockhart._

“I thought I had but I don’t think so.”

“It’s distilled here as well. No wonder, with all this snow. Nothing better to do than make booze and drink it.”

Tifa’s laugh is genuine this time, almost melodic. He likes the way it sounds and when she stops, he instantly wants to make her laugh again. The thought unsettles him.

The silence that follows seems to unsettle her as well. She takes another liberal sip. It’s contagious and now he’s really starting to feel the effects of the gin.

After a few drinks and changes in topic, Tifa finally says, “You’re not quite what I expected.”

“No? And what did you expect?” _The boogie man? A monster?_ He bites the inside of his cheek to contain the snark. 

His eyes find hers in the dying light of the fire while he waits for a response. Their color reminds him of the deeply pigmented berries he used to pick in the foothills of Mt. Nibel when his father’s temper chased him from the manor. She rouses both fondness and despair in his memories. It feels unusual to hold the connection between them like some tangible thing. As if they really share anything in common at all.

Tifa continues to hesitate beneath the weight of a look he can’t read. Pursed lips, yet something in her eyes is open, almost candid. She wants to answer, but she very well might be afraid to say the wrong thing. Because he is Rufus _fucking_ Shinra, after all, and she probably thinks him a tyrant. He waves a hand her way. “You don’t have to answer that,” he gets out as he rises from the cushion. “And I should get back to my room.”

Rufus stalks for the door, not waiting for whatever words she might’ve said.

* * *

It’s a long night. The weight of everything Rufus carries feels the most impossible in the moments before dawn. He stands at the tall window in his room watching the rising, filtered sunlight illuminate a veritable snow globe outside. It’s going to be an even longer weekend.

He takes his morning coffee on the same patio from the night before. He can almost see the ghosts of his conversation with Tifa haunting the space. A rough sigh chases them from the room. Being around her has brought many a spectre into the light, he realizes with a start. He pinpoints that as the reason he’s been thinking about her for the better part of eighteen hours. Ever since lunch yesterday.

Tseng is still on a call, working out details with Reno to cover things in his stead. Rufus is on his second cup, bored to tears and picking at threads clinging to his tweed slacks when he hears the doors part. He glances up, expecting a different head of long, dark hair. _Lovely_.

“I thought I might find you here.” Tifa’s voice is rife with relief and a hint of determination. It takes him by surprise. 

She crosses the room, wearing the same jeans and sweater from yesterday. He’s suddenly thankful Tseng always insists he pack a go bag for these trips. She claims the chair across from him while he puzzles through the idea of her seeking him out. He can only guess this has something to do with how things were left last night. 

He schools his features into a bland look and shoots for cordiality. “If this is about last night, it’s already forgotten.” 

Tenacity sparks in her eyes. “Even so, I just wanted to say—”

“You owe me no explanation.”

“Honestly, I—”

He continues to dismiss the topic. It occurs to him that he’s almost afraid of whatever it is she might have to say. “Really, nothing left to—”

“Rufus,” Tifa snaps. A memory of her bossing around a few kids at the park rushes through him. She’s always seemed reserved as an adult, but this unfiltered version is closer to the one he remembers. A patient smile covers the flash of her temper. “Can I perhaps say what it is I came to say?” 

Rufus inclines his head.

Though she must have given thought to what she wants to say, she falters now that he’s silent. He wonders if it’s difficult for her to express her true thoughts. 

“Look,” she begins, her voice smaller than before. “I don’t know how much you remember from when we were kids but the others either looked up to you, were intimidated by you, or they were drawn to whatever charisma you exuded even then. I just thought you were a nice kid.”

His brows shoot up. Nice? Maybe she’s just kindhearted enough that she’s chased him down to make sure she hasn’t insulted him. Maybe she means that. Either way, there might be a grin forming on his lips, a teasing reply bubbling somewhere beneath it.

She speaks before he gets carried away. “A thought that surprised me, given your family and how that mansion always gave me the creeps.”

“You and me both,” he sneaks the sentiment in. 

Tifa rewards him with a laugh. “I can’t imagine spending the night there.” A visible shudder courses through her. 

Rufus laughs as well. “And what, with vampires living in the basement, who could blame you.”

Tifa is utterly still for a moment. Then realization dawns and a slow smile spreads across her lips. “Vincent is wonderful, I’ll have you know.”

“I believe it.” The ex-Turk has certainly been helpful.

“Anyway, when your company...When they caused so much harm, I felt like that nice boy I knew was either a complete fabrication, some figment of my imagination, or he was a...prisoner.”

His face feels a few degrees too warm. There’s a distinct urge to stop this conversation and he swallows the last of his coffee to keep from saying anything he might regret.

Tifa carries on. “I guess I thought it might be different once you took over. And I do see that you fought _hard_ to stop the weapons and Meteor, all of that. But you also...it doesn’t matter. What matters is, I honestly didn’t know what to expect from you. I didn’t have an answer last night and I still don’t. I can’t keep up with the rollercoaster that is Shinra’s public image over the last couple of years.”

He cups his jaw, fingers splaying to support his head as he rests it wearily. “You’re not the only one who isn’t sure what to think. I recognize we have our work cut out for us.”

“You do. But I can see that you’re trying, at least. So I get the sense that maybe that nice person I knew a very long time ago might still exist.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” 

His tone borders on sarcasm, but she seems to see it for the deflection it is. His PHS chirps with a text from Tseng, a welcome excuse to outrun any more of this perilous conversation. “It appears I have a little work to do,” he tells her. 

“On a Saturday?”

“No rest for the wicked and all that.” He can’t help the shit-eating grin.

Tifa looks discomfited. Rufus sets his mug on the side table and heads for the door. He’s nearly content to leave things on this note, but something catches. “Tifa?”

She turns in the chair, finding him where he’s paused near the exit. 

“About Junon.” He can see the panic that floods her even now. He almost decides against saying anything, but it’s too late. “I left the key. I’m sorry about that whole mess, I was…” _New and trying to prove something. Trying desperately to stave off the vultures that were Scarlet and the rest_. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I was, there’s no excuse. But I am sorry.”

Tifa swallows thickly and shakes her head as if trying to toss aside the apology. He doesn’t have the heart to see if she might say anything about it, he just slips out into the hall.

  
  


* * *

By Tuesday, everyone is stir crazy. It’s looking more and more like they’ll be spending the holiday tomorrow trapped in a hotel. Rufus hopes they don’t run out of food...or booze. He thinks back to Sunday when the predictions on how long the storm would last came out, how crestfallen Tifa had looked as everyone gathered in the restaurant to hear the news.

Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was some strange way of making amends. He still doesn’t know. But whatever it was that has driven him to spend time with her since then, he’s thinking he doesn’t regret it.

The hotel might beg to differ. On several occasions, they’ve been scolded by the staff. 

Sunday afternoon, it was redecorating that got them into trouble. Rufus stumbled upon Tifa hanging a couple of ornaments from the hotel shop on a palm tree nestled on the covered patio. He could tell she was missing her family, so he did his best to keep her company. The decorations evolved from there, bringing back some of the more pleasant memories of childhood. 

Apparently, the hotel wasn’t as appreciative of the finishing touches. The handmade decor _was_ rather rudimentary. Strung popcorn that they munched on perhaps a bit too much before stringing it around tropical plants in the halls that already looked out of place enough. Snowmen and stars created with various boxes from food and other provisions were taped above doorways.

It’s not his fault they looked as though they were delivered by the local elementary school.

On Monday, he raided the maintenance room and found huge rolls of plastic that he unfurled down the longest stretch of hallway. He’d emptied one of the ice machines onto the plastic and found a makeshift sled on which they careened through the hall. The problem with that sort of momentum and melted ice? No brakes. They’d crashed in the end, a tangle of limbs that he enjoyed maybe a little too much before the maintenance supervisor came out fuming. The fits of laughter lasted long into the process of cleaning up the mess they made. 

Tseng hasn’t been impressed, either.

Rufus blames the fact that he’s not had this kind of free time in years. It’s been fun getting to do ridiculous things. And if he’s honest, it’s been fun genuinely getting to know Tifa. She oscillates between cautious and candid with him, only revealing little bits at a time. He’s well aware of the fact that she might not give him the time of day were it not for being trapped and looking for distraction. Yet, he’s beginning to feel a magnetic pull toward her.

The good will she manages with someone who was once an acquaintance before becoming an enemy is remarkable. He’s never met anyone with so much heart and bravery quite like hers. And while she’s always been an attractive woman, something about the simple joy of laughing with her makes him realize she’s downright stunning. 

_Oh no._

Mild panic grips him for a moment. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time. He has no business feeling this way about Tifa Lockhart. The urge to bail on their plans after lunch hits him like a freight train, but then he remembers how disappointed she’d been at dinner. Even Tseng seemed to pity her last night. The kids would be baking cookies without her for the first time in a while. He’d told her to meet him in the restaurant’s kitchen after lunch the next day and he’d spent the hour following dinner bribing the chef for use of their ovens and some ingredients for cookies. 

No, he has to do this. He can keep it casual.

Once the rush of lunch passes, he meets Tifa outside the restaurant. She’s managed to throw together a wardrobe from the lost and found and what little the hotel shop had left. A soft emerald sweater a size too big for her hangs from her frame, exposing one shoulder. The grey jeans she wears have a hole in the knee and rips on her left thigh, but it looks intentional. They’re long and a little baggy, but she’s cuffed them over her boots. He gets the impression she’s the kind of woman who can make anything look good. 

And he chides himself for the thought, sighing inwardly.

“Hey!” She greets him with a smile. “So, what kind of hell are we raising today?” The smile shifts into a facetious smirk.

Rufus chuckles. “I actually got permission for once.”

Tifa feigns shock. “Wait, hang on. Are you feeling okay?” Her tone is blithe and she brushes her fingers over his forehead as if checking his temperature.

The touch sends waves through his limbs. He clears his throat. “Possibly, though I’m feeling a bit flushed now.”

Color blooms on her cheeks. He brushes past her, leading the way into the kitchen. The chef greets him with a smile and explains the quirks of the ovens while he lays out all of the ingredients. Rufus spares a few glances at Tifa, finding a pretty smile on her face when she realizes what’s happening.

When the chef clears out of the way, Tifa turns to Rufus. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

“I knew you were upset about missing out on baking cookies with the kids today. I thought we could bake a few and after, maybe you can set up a video chat with them to decorate the cookies together.” Rufus smirks before he adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll make myself scarce for that. Wouldn’t want Wallace to fill the device with holes trying to take me out.” 

“He would totally blow a gasket if he knew I was baking holiday cookies with _Rufus Shinra_.”

“Absolutely scandalous.” He winks at her, earning an exuberant laugh. 

As they start mixing ingredients for gingerbread, he considers the truth behind the jests. Yet another reason he shouldn’t be feeling the things he’s starting to feel.

“Is Wallace back in Edge for good then?” he asks while cracking eggs into the mixing bowl. He does a bang up job if it, bits of shell managing to crumble into the egg whites. 

Tifa graciously helps him scoop out the pieces. “We’ll see. He’s been back for a few weeks now, which has been really nice. But it may just be for the holidays.”

“Ah. It’s his daughter that you look after, right?”

She nods. “Marlene.” 

He lets her swipe the whisk when he fails to whip the eggs into a frothy enough mixture. “And the boy?”

“Denzel. He’s adopted. Orphaned in the chaos...” 

He reads between the lines. And he’s sure he’s heard that name. Rufus recalls something Reeve said about a boy his mother looked after shortly before she passed away. A boy who tried to be recruited into the WRO, even arranged for an interview. He wonders if Tifa knows about that. He wonders if she knows Denzel’s father worked for Shinra. Rufus is all too familiar with Abel’s file, the unfortunate events that had befallen him under the old guard. 

He doesn’t think now is the time to bring any of that up. Instead, he says, “He’s lucky to have you.”

“We’re the lucky ones, in this case.”

Rufus offers a warm smile as she folds the eggs into the rest of the batter. He decides she might just be the most altruistic person he’s ever met. 

When they have the batter ready to be rolled out, he’s feeling far too cozy with her while he sprinkles flour across the wooden counter. A devilish grin finds his lips and he quickly sends a dusting of the fine powder her way. It clings to her hair and paints her cheeks. Her laughter is a song he’s had stuck in his head for days.

“Rufus!” she squeaks. But despite her protest, she grabs a handful of flour and sends a cloud arching right for his hair. 

War breaks out. The kind that leaves all the surfaces of their workspace covered in a film of flour and the two of them laughing like old friends. He wonders what his life would have been like had he gotten to know her better when he was a kid.

As they slide the tray of gingerbread men into the oven once things have settled, Tseng pops into the kitchen. He pauses as he takes in the mess and the two of them covered in flour.

“Clearly, I can’t leave you alone for too long,” Tseng says. His lips are straight for a minute, but they curve into a hint of a smile. They must be a sight. He slips back into a professional tone. “I have something to pass along when you have a moment, sir.” 

“I’ll meet you back at the room shortly.”

“Mr. President.” Tseng nods and disappears beyond the doors. 

Rufus shakes his head, dusting flour from his hair and earning a laugh from Tifa as it rains down around them. She brushes her own coating to the floor, but a rogue streak clings to her jaw. Before he can think better of it, he reaches out and brushes it away. Her skin is soft beneath his thumb.

Tifa sucks in a breath and her eyes fly to his. He risks an affectionate brush of his thumb just once more. She doesn’t shy away. He thinks about stepping a little closer, finding out what it would feel like to kiss her, but he does think better of that. 

“I’d better get going,” he says in a trance.

Tifa just nods as his hand falls away.

“Have fun decorating with the kids. Maybe I’ll see you at dinner?”

She clears her throat and gives a quick nod. “Maybe.”

For the third time in the span of a few days, Rufus flees. 

* * *

The eve of the holiday arrives swiftly. Rufus feels the disappointment of missing out on dinner with some of his favorite people more keenly than anticipated. Maybe he does have a family, after all.

He can tell Tseng is right there with him and judging by Tifa’s mood when he ran into her earlier, she’s not feeling any holiday joy either. He endeavors to do something about it. He can’t really think of two people more deserving of a kind surprise.

He’s just finished hauling the palm tree Tifa decorated into the circle of chairs he’s rearranged on the patio when they join him. Beneath the palm are two gifts wrapped in makeshift paper he managed to find hanging around. Surprise registers on the two of them and he finds it amusing how thrown off they both appear.

“Thought we could use a little holiday cheer,” Rufus announces. He gestures to the chairs. “Have a seat.”

Tseng looks a little concerned, but he steps around the chairs and takes a seat. He’s left the chair closest to the entry for Tifa, who smiles nervously as she sits. 

“Don’t look so worried, Tseng. It’s just a bit of fun."

Tseng deadpans. “You mean like the fun we had mopping up melted ice and trying to stuff yards of plastic into the overflowing trash chute?” 

“Even better,” Rufus replies with a laugh. 

Snagging one of the gifts, he presents it to Tseng with a mock flourish. The half-hearted scowl he receives in return makes him grin. He hands the other box to Tifa and she accepts it with a distracted look.

“You two are a regular pair of killjoys,” he teases. 

Tifa gingerly peels the paper from the box and peeks inside. He’s not sure what she was expecting but a relieved laugh escapes her as she holds up the chalice she found the other night. He decided to make use of the cleaning supplies he’s discovered and managed to polish the cup to its original luster. 

“Who knew this thing was so pretty under all that dust and tarnish?” She frowns. “Isn’t this stealing though?”

Of course, she would worry about that. “I bought it off the innkeeper. Apparently, it’s a hundred years old or so.”

Tifa tilts her head, admiring the etched snowflakes now visible in the silver piece. If nothing else, it’s a keepsake from a very crazy trip to the Northern Continent. She thanks him, but her bright smile is thanks enough.

Tseng unwraps his gift, revealing an obnoxiously bright green squirt gun from the gift shop. A furrow worries his brow as he turns the plastic weapon over in his hand. 

“Defense against Reno when he’s being particularly annoying,” Rufus says with a shrug and a straight face.

Tseng laughs in earnest. Tifa seems amused to learn the Turks might be human, after all.

The three of them share a toast and a festive dinner he’s ordered from the chef. It almost feels like a holiday he should’ve had as a child. To his surprise, the conversation flows naturally for people who have been on the opposite side of things in the past. When the fire burns down to embers, he offers to walk Tifa back to her room. 

At the door, she seems to waffle on what to say. She tilts the chalice his way. “Thanks again, this cleaned up beautifully.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Tifa opens the door and pauses on the threshold, turning to face him as she leans against the doorway. “It was kind of you to set all of that up, it really felt festive. And it would’ve been depressing to sit in this room all evening.”

“I couldn’t let one of the best people I know spend Christmas Eve alone.”

Tifa starts to fumble for words in the most adorable of ways. He should probably save her the trouble. 

“Tseng may be my best employee, but he’s also one of my closest friends,” he adds.

She huffs a laugh. He picks up on relief, for sure, but possibly a tinge of disappointment as well. _Interesting._

“He always seemed so stern, but it’s fun to see a different side of him,” she says.

“I also didn’t think it fair for you to be alone on a holiday. I’m sorry you missed celebrating with your family.”

“There’ll be next year.”

“Indeed.” He should probably let her go, stop stalling in the hallway, but he’s rooted to the floor. He can’t seem to stop the words that follow. “And Tifa? Safe to say someone as genuine and kind as you are falls into the category of ‘best people I know’ as well.” 

A blush spreads across her cheeks, an inviting smile on her lips. And now he’s unsure how to stop thinking about kissing her. Magnetism pulls him a step forward. Tifa doesn’t back away, but her smile fades in favor of her teeth worrying her bottom lip. That sends a delicious wave of desire through him. 

Rufus reaches out to brush his thumb along her jaw, just as he had in the kitchen. Still, she holds her ground. In fact, she leans the tiniest bit closer. Something sparks to life in the space between them and he can’t resist it any longer.

Closing the distance, he brushes his mouth over the corner of hers. It’s hardly a kiss, just a gentle touch. He hovers when she sucks in a breath. His heart kicks in his chest, making him dizzy as he waits there, breathing the same air. 

Tifa similarly grazes his lips, a phantom kiss so airy he’s not sure it happened. But it makes him braver.

His fingers brush a few strands of hair behind her ear and he cups her chin, tilting her head until their lips meet in full. Electricity darts through his limbs and what begins slowly quickly turns into the kind of kiss that’s been building for a while.

Tifa pushes onto her tiptoes, her arms winding around his neck as she deepens the kiss. He can’t help thinking that running into her here is possibly the best thing to happen to him all year. Suddenly, he’s very sad the snow stopped falling today. If he could just pause time for a little longer… But he can’t. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead gently against hers. 

Everything has just changed and for once, Rufus has no idea what to do with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say. This one very nearly killed me because it is a very complicated pairing to float with a one-shot and while it was tempting to turn it into a multi-chap, I have two of those already in the works. I hope it was at least a fun read ♥️


	5. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A holiday family dinner with the Turks and Rufus is underway and Reno has a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shinra Holiday 2020 prompt **Family Dinner**.

Holidays have looked a little different since the merry band of silver-haired lunatics were defeated. With Rufus cured and life in Edge beginning to settle, things are starting to feel almost...domestic. The thought immediately makes Reno’s hands itch, anxious with the need to raise a little hell. But he can’t do that with a plate full of questionable, home-made treats in hand. 

Instead, he’s in for a family dinner. 

The townhouse Rufus moved into a few months ago looks cheery with strings of lights on the eves and garland wrapped around the porch. He didn’t think the President was the type. More proof that things are getting mundane. Seeing as his hands are full, Reno kicks the door a couple of times. When that doesn’t seem to work, he grinds his elbow into the doorbell repeatedly. A second later, Rufus opens the door and it’s extremely difficult not to laugh at the miffed expression he wears.

“And here I expected a herd of Elfadunks at the door,” Rufus says by way of greeting. 

Reno just shrugs. “Full hands.” 

Rufus gives him a once over and he can almost hear the suggestion that he’d make. Reno definitely could have balanced the tray in one hand and knocked politely. But what fun would that have been? 

Through a sigh, Rufus says, “Come in. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

Rufus accepts the tray so Reno can shed his coat at the door. The temperature is toasty enough inside that he’s thankful he opted for a thin black sweater and a well-worn pair of jeans. Rufus, on the other hand, looks like he’s headed to some A-List party in his fancy turtleneck, sleek jacket, and immaculately tailored pants. He’s not sure how the man isn’t sweating his ass off.

Once in the kitchen, it’s a bit chaotic. The airy space is all quartz and several shades of white he’s sure have names like ‘eggshell’ and ‘moonlight.’ Elena stands in front of a stainless steel oven, her ashy blonde hair disheveled as she fans herself with an oven mitt. She’s also glaring at Rude, who is smirking like a cat.

“I don’t know why you had to choose the most complicated recipe _ever_ ,” Elena grouses.

Tseng is hiding just beyond the breakfast bar holding a tumbler of what looks to be liquor, his face an entertaining shade of vexed. 

“It’s not that complicated.” Rude’s words are patient, underlined with amusement. 

Elena huffs in reply and smacks Rude on the arm with the mitt. Her eyes flit to Rufus, who is setting Reno’s tray on the island. She tosses the mitt at Rude, skipping over to inspect the contents. 

“Holy shit,” she exclaims. 

Reno isn’t sure if she’s impressed he took her wager seriously or if she’s just shocked at how awful things look. “You decided to make that bet about store-bought junk, so this is what you get.”

Rude peers over her shoulder and laughs at the sad state of the half-burnt cookies, melty peppermint bark, and too-gooey marshmallow bars. 

A smirk finds Elena’s lips, painted the same hue as her silken cranberry skirt. “As long as they taste good.”

“I make no promises.”

Rufus hands him a beer—his favorite amber lager from Costa del Sol—and half-whispers, “Remind me to order in next year.”

Elena harrumphs into the cocktail she’s just picked up.

“The hell are you two making, anyway?” Reno asks.

“They’ve somehow convinced themselves that they could throw together kabocha squash stuffed with quinoa and pomegranate seeds last minute, since you’re vegetarian,” Tseng answers for them. “This is on top of the roast beef tenderloin and what was it?”

Elena gives him a sheepish look. “Sun-dried tomato pesto bites and crispy potato leaves with rosemary butter and sea salt.”

“They’ve been in here _all day_ ,” Rufus chimes in.

Reno takes a sip of his beer. “What are we aiming for here, the fucking Eleven Sixty?” 

The ostentatious and highly out of place restaurant opened a few months ago. It's named after the address it occupies and is likely a holdover from the survivors who were used to a life of luxury on the plate. 

Rude just sighs and reiterates, “It’s really not that complicated.”

“Hey, if you two wanna be fancy, who am I to judge?”

“At least the whole meal won’t look like a five-year-old made it,” Elena quips with a nod toward Reno’s tray.

“Children,” Tseng interrupts with a sardonic voice. “Something’s definitely burning.”

Elena squeaks in exasperation as she whirls on the oven. Mitt reclaimed and back in place, she wafts smoke out of the way and pulls out the tray of plump squashes, their tops tilted haphazardly. Rude hovers as she sets them on a trivet, trying to assess the damage. 

“They’re just... _caramelized_ ,” Rude offers with a grin.

“Whatever, I’m sure they’re edible.” 

Once set, the long table in Rufus’s dining room really does look fancy. The collection of gourmet dishes, tall taper candles flickering along the runner, and jazzy holiday music certainly doesn’t hinder that impression. _So damn domestic_.

The domesticity is not without its benefits, though, the meal is delicious. 

Full to the brim, Reno lounges back in his chair and poses a question. “So, what does Santa bring highly domesticated, former clandestine operators?”

“Former?” Elena raises her brows.

“Not like we’ve been operating quite the way we used to,” Rude adds in.

“Still, we’re not exactly office stiffs,” Elena grumbles.

“Fuck’s sake, all right. What does Santa bring domesticated sometimes-killers who still do badass things every once in a while?”

Rufus snorts his whisky. 

“Oh I know.” Elena props both elbows on the table, smiling excitedly. “He’d bring them...explosives made out of coal.”

Reno chuckles. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“Why not?” Rude questions. “Or maybe he brings them festive fighting gloves.”

“Bejeweled semi-automatic rifles,” Tseng puts in.

“Maybe he brings them evil little murder puppies,” Rufus cracks in a voice suited for Darkstar’s ears. The intimidating beast looks out of place begging at the table, especially as Rufus provides an affectionate pat on the head. 

Apparently, even the damn Shinra dog is domesticated now.

“Maybe.” Reno snickers. “I think the better question is, how the hell does the dude visit all of Gaia in one night? Who comes up with this shit?” 

“Magic,” Elena says simply. 

“What, fire materia attached to the back of his sleigh like rockets?”

Rude smirks. “That sounds like it could very easily backfire.”

“One wrong move and we’re looking at a very gory Christmas morning,” Tseng says with a wry grin. “If anything, it would have to be time materia he uses.”

Rufus quirks a brow. “He just brings all of Gaia to a halt while he delivers all the gifts?” 

“Makes more sense than him blasting around in a blaze of red and white glory,” Elena croons at Reno.

He shrugs. “I like my theory better. Besides, that would take a shit-ton of time materia.”

“Or a _seriously_ powerful cast.” Rude smiles down the table at him. “What if Santa is actually a Summon?”

Reno nearly spits his sip of beer. “The fuck?”

“A Summon?” Tseng looks unconvinced. “I’d love to hear your hypothesis on that one.”

Rude fumbles. “Uhh.”

 _Shoulda thought that one through, buddy_. Luckily, bullshit is his speciality. 

Reno clears his throat. “Well you see, they’ve trapped the original Santa in a summon materia so that he can be called on once a year and never dies. He just comes out to grant the wishes of all the good little kiddies on Gaia.” It’s an effort to keep from laughing, but he manages an even tone.

Elena seems on the edge of bursting with laughter. “So Santa is basically a jolly old Genie with a fluffy white beard?” 

“And who exactly is the ‘they’ you referenced trapping and summoning him?” Tseng leans forward, tenting his fingers. He’s practically daring Reno to see this through. 

Reno fixes Rufus with a knowing stare.

Rufus throws up his hands. “Why are you looking at me? This is your theory.”

“The Shinras were the most powerful family in Gaia. My money’s on them.”

Rufus snorts. “So you think my ancestors trapped Santa Claus in a summon materia and set about bringing him back every Christmas to deliver toys and gifts around the world?”

Reno just crosses his arms, standing his ridiculous ground.

“My family,” Rufus continues, “the power hungry, violent bunch of sociopaths who sought to rule the world were actually saints undercover all this time?”

Reno bites his lip to keep from smirking. “What better way to keep everyone under your thumb than to keep them behaving under the promise of good behavior leading to rewards. Keep them comfortable and happy and satiated with gifts.” 

Or mako energy, but he doesn’t say that because that crosses a line. 

Rude and Elena are both focusing on him with very stern eyes. Tseng pales.

To his surprise, Rufus doesn’t seem bothered by the comment that unintentionally hit a little too close to the not-so-distant past. He laughs it off. “While I wouldn’t put that past my father, I think Tseng’s time materia theory makes the most sense.”

Tseng chortles. “Thank you, sir.”

“Kiss ass,” Reno snarks. 

As they share a laugh, Reno is thinking that maybe a little domesticity isn’t so bad, after all. Family dinners full of the usual kitchen drama and silly, if somewhat tense, conversation are something he can finally enjoy. 

Once a year, anyway. 

  
  



	6. Cheers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reno and Elena toast to a job somewhat well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’ve ventured into highly self-indulgent smut. Sorry guys 😏 This is just what came to mind when I saw the prompt **Cheers** for some reason. I've seen some really pretty art of these two paired up lately and it put them on my mind for a few weeks. What is this ship name anyway?! Whatever it may be, enjoy some Reno/Elena fun.

The entire thing goes down like a fight scene she’s seen in a bad movie. The two of them are outnumbered and outgunned, but certainly not out of options. They always manage, even if things get a tad...sloppy. 

Elena can't help but marvel a little at the precision Reno manages even in such chaos. This is incredibly annoying because she’d prefer to be the one who comes out on top this time. 

One of the men Reno _thought_ he took down rises again. She puts a bullet in his back—straight into the heart—before he can land the blow he was aiming to deal her colleague. 

“Twelve,” she chirps proudly. 

“Well,” Reno drawls as he cracks his weapon down on someone’s skull. “That makes fourteen for me. So unless you can raise a few from the dead, I win.” 

His back is to her but she can hear the devilish smirk he’s undoubtedly wearing. Sure enough, when he pivots, she’s looking at the very _image_ of feral beauty. Disheveled hair like fire in the orange light of the warehouse, aqua eyes simmering with the promise of violence, the cocky jut of his chin. _Fuck_ , he looks best when he’s working. 

Reno’s thumbs his jaw, smearing a spot of blood. She has no idea if it’s his or someone else’s. His white shirt is all but crimson at this point. It prompts her to look down, finding hers in much the same state. The reality of what’s just occurred comes barreling in. 

“We should get out of here,” she warns. 

“Not sure about you, but I could use a drink.”

Every inch of her is starting to react to the loss of adrenaline. A soothing nightcap begins to sound highly appealing. 

There’s just one problem.

“We’re covered in blood.”

“Like that’s ever stopped us. Besides, it’s a good look.”

Elena huffs a laugh and stalks toward Reno, registering the thrill that races through her when he watches her like a predator. She meets his gaze as her hands go to his collar briefly before trailing down the fabric. It’s incredibly satisfying to see the hunger that comes to life in his eyes. He thinks this is headed somewhere else. 

“You should probably tuck this in,” she tells him as she roughly shoves his shirt behind the lapels of his jacket. It looks a little ridiculous, but it’s better than the obvious bloodstains. 

“Thanks, Laney. What would I do without you?” 

She doesn’t miss the bite in his tone. 

“Let’s go.”

Elena sets a brisk pace, leading the way from the warehouse into the street. Before stepping into the light of the lamps, she smooths her hair and tries to hide some of the stains on her shirt. At least she’s got more buttons to work with. 

The holiday decor draped around the street strikes an odd contrast to the bloodbath they’ve left behind. She tries not to give it much thought as they make their way toward one of the bars in this part of town. 

Junon is frigid this time of year. It makes the atmosphere in the bar all the more warm and inviting.

Holiday decorations have made their way into this space, too. Even the drink specials are themed. She rolls her eyes at the one titled ‘Jingle Juice’ but she barely has time to think about making a comment. It’s hard to keep focus on that when the temperature of the room drops suddenly.

Several pairs of worried eyes have floated her way or drifted toward Reno where he’s paused by the door. The noise level in the bar recedes for a tense moment. Reno plunders the coat rack, snatching a scarf the color of pine trees. He throws it loosely over his shoulders, covering more of the mess that is his suit. If the owner of the scarf sees the theft, they don’t react. 

There seems to be a collective shrug that resets the crowd to babbling amongst themselves.

“Those sticky fingers are going to get you in trouble one of these days,” she comments flatly. 

“They’re not sticky, they’re nimble. Just ask any of the ladies down at the evidence locker.”

Elena shoots him a grimace. “Gross.”

“You know you don’t mean that.”

She doesn’t know what she thinks, truthfully. The whole cad act is probably some sort of protective measure, she posits. Reno likes to keep everyone at arm’s length and she wonders what made him that way. From the beginning, she’s told herself she wouldn’t fall for it. The flirting, the sinfully heated glances, the crazy things he sometimes says. But there’s a thrill to it all that she’s finding harder to resist every time they’re sent out on a mission together. 

Maybe she just needs to get it out of her system.

“Lack of response supports the evidence.” Reno sends a wink her way.

“Shut up,” she retorts as she slides into a chair at a high top table. 

He’s still grinning that stupidly charming grin that makes her stomach flip. “The usual?” 

Elena nods and watches him stroll up to the bar. She really needs to get a handle on this before he returns. Or maybe she should just let it roll, live on the dangerous side of things for once. Which sounds rich, considering what she does for a living, but she’s never been one to blur the lines of professionalism. Yet. She’s heard plenty of rumors of what happens between the other Turks sometimes when the thrill of battle wears off and the connection between violence and sex overtakes better judgment.

Reno claims the chair across from her. A tumbler of vodka soda glides her way across the smooth table. She tries not to think about screwing him.

“Thanks,” she tells him. 

She’s nearly gotten that first sweet sip when he interrupts. “Ah-ah, come on, Laney. You know you can’t take a drink without a toast.”

Elena stares icily. “Fine. Cheers to surviving holiday hits gone sideways.”

An amused look settles over Reno’s features. “Holiday hits?”

“Isn’t that what it is, in the end? Tseng did send us up here on the eve of a holiday.”

“I’ll give you that, but it’s still a weak toast.”

She’s about to take a sip whether he likes it or not, but the competitive side of her sparks to life. “Then you give a better one.”

He flicks his gaze around the bar, his voice nearly a whisper as he says, “Cheers to these assholes not having a clue we took out half their mini-mafia tonight.”

Elena snorts. “Mini-mafia. Shiva, those idiots couldn’t manage a crime ring if laid down and begged them to.”

“I think that much is obvious, considering they were found out, sought out, and taken out.”

The way he says it makes her laugh. “That makes your toast wildly inaccurate, then. No mini-mafia here.”

"Whatever." He gives her a petulant nod. “Your turn.”

“Mm, cheers to making messes in shady warehouses.”

“That wasn’t nearly messy enough. And it wasn’t the fun kind of mess.”

Her pulse quickens. She shakes it off and tries again. “Then cheers to ridiculous drink names like ‘Jingle Juice.’”

“Was that on the fucking menu?” Reno cranes around to find it definitely is on the menu. “Wow. What is that like...Santa’s jizz?”

“Fuck’s sake, that’s just nasty.” But she doesn’t even try to hide her laughter. “So anyway, was that an acceptable toast?” 

He lounges back, giving her an appraising look. “Nah. I think you can do better.”

“Hey, Reno?”

“Yes, Laney?”

“Fuck you.” She says it with a sickly sweet little smile and a tilt of her glass.

“Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t be so damned uptight.” He says it like it’s nothing.

Elena tries and fails to keep her cheeks from feeling a bit warm. His lips are curved into that damnable smirk. She feels the urge to kiss them until he stops smirking. Or maybe the urge to slap him? She isn’t sure which.

At this point, she just wants a fucking drink. She says the first thing that comes to mind, “Cheers to bloodsoaked suits.”

“And stolen scarves,” he adds, flipping the ends of his scarf with one hand. 

Thankfully, he clinks her glass with his and lets it go.

Elena does her best to drown it all in watered-down drinks and breezy conversation but by the end of it, she’s still feeling a bit pent up. Their work is difficult, it takes a toll no matter what she tells herself. She’s grown used to the cost of taking life, but she’s still not used to narrow misses. 

The image of the last man she killed managing to land that deadly blow to Reno keeps playing through her mind, tormenting her senses. Elena reminds herself it didn’t play out that way. She stopped it. Reno is safe because of her. That’s something, at least. Maybe that’s what she should have toasted to.

‘ ‘ ‘

The bruises are starting to bloom on her chest where she took a few hard hits. Elena unbuttons her blouse, staring her reflection down in the hotel bathroom. There’s a particularly nasty mark coming up on her sternum and she recalls the feeling of drowning on dry land that accompanied it. She’s already discovered quite a few cuts on her left leg after slipping out of her pants and those came with the image of a gangly madman wielding a dagger. 

She bends over the sink to inspect a small cut high on her cheekbone. The origins of this one are hazier. A knock at the door pulls her from trying to remember.

Reno pushes the crack in the door a bit wider, he’s shirtless and gripping the back of his neck as if it might be sore. “Hey, Elena?”

Finding his eyes in the mirror, she doesn’t miss when they dip to the reflection of her lacy black bra or rove the length of her bare legs. Heat washes through her, but she pushes it away as far as she can manage. “Yeah, Reno?”

He snaps out of it, but his voice is rougher when he speaks. “Cheers to rookies who are rookies no more.”

It shouldn’t mean so much, but it does. He’s always been a little hesitant to accept her and, on occasion, he’s been hard on her for mistakes. She knows it comes from a good place, the same way it does when she’s welcomed kind corrections from Rude or discipline from Tseng. They all just want her to be at her best and she’s improved at her craft because of it. But Reno is the last one to openly compliment her on _anything_.

A grin quickly spreads on her lips. 

“Okay, don’t go getting all cocky,” Reno quips. 

“Shut up,” she tells him for the second time in a few hours. “Before you ruin it.”

Elena whirls, resting her hands behind her on the sink. The movement pushes her chest forward and Reno’s eyes snag there again. Between all the violence and the pent up energy, the different side of him and the way he looks without a shirt, she’s helpless against the way her heart pounds in her ears. 

The heat that washed through her before goes straight to her core this time. It makes her reckless.

“I _really_ should wash all of this blood off.” Her gaze catches on his, communicating an invitation behind the words.

“I could stand to rinse.” 

The words are thick even though he’s tried to sound impartial. She’s playing with fire.

Elena reaches around the pane of glass separating the walk-in shower from the rest of the room. She turns the handle, finding a pleasant temperature. 

Reno is rooted to the floor, watching her.

She lifts a brow, chewing on her bottom lip as she sheds her top. When she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra, she can see the deep breath he takes. His collar bones are more prominent as his chest fills and then empties in something that’s almost a growl. She watches his throat move with a slow swallow.

She lets her bra fall. The curl of his upper lip as his eyes drift across her breasts sends a shock between her thighs. Tension clicks into place between them, heated stares and silent demands exchanged in the quiet moment. She shimmies lazily out of her thong and steps into the warm spray of water.

She’s just rinsed away the dried blood when she senses him behind her. His mouth is on the nape of her neck, teeth scraping gently over to her shoulder. Reno’s hands are calloused and warm as they slip between the curve of both hips, brushing past her arms. 

His kiss disappears as he flattens his hands against her stomach and pulls her softly back. She can hardly breathe when he presses into her. His strong chest against her shoulders, the hardness of him nudging the small of her back—it feels sinful. Roaming palms chase away droplets of water as he drags his hands up her torso to cup both breasts. She isn’t sure this somewhat gentle touch belongs to the man behind her until it morphs and he grabs her roughly. That’s more like what she expects of Reno.

Elena smirks and shifts around him, pushing him into the stream of water. He faces her with objection on his lips but it dies out at her touch. With slow, purposeful hands she erases any trace of the fight, exploring all of the fine lines of his chest and abs. Water haunts her every move as she follows the margin of his hip bones, letting her fingers trail inward. A groan flees his mouth when she grips the proud length of him, his chin rising involuntarily. She likes the way his entire body responds as she moves her hand in languid strokes.

His eyes find hers a moment later, that familiar predator within looking to be about two seconds from snapping his leash. It sends electricity through her veins. She dares him with a defiant smirk. The tether frays and the crash of his mouth against hers chases the smirk away. When his fingers sink between her thighs, his restraint evaporates.

An indulgent moan escapes her at the feel of his fingers on her— _in_ her. It only serves to increase the fervor with which he kisses her.

She throws her arms up around his neck and his fingers retreat. She almost whines but he’s lifting her swiftly, wrapping her legs around his torso. Her back hits the slick wall of the shower _hard_ , but it just makes her want him all the more. She’s clawing at him, trying to climb up higher so she can have all of him. All she manages to do is slick herself against him in a way that makes her head swim and her hips buck aimlessly.

A sensual laugh fills her ear just before she feels his teeth rake against the lobe. She arches into him, her head softly thumping against the tile. 

“You want this _so_ bad,” he almost whispers. 

The words are a lazy declaration that makes her see red. 

“ _Shut up_ and fuck me, Reno.” 

She doesn’t have to ask twice. He lifts her just a little higher and snaps his hips, driving into her in one swift thrust. It steals the breath from both their lungs. The feel of him as he fills her is too luxurious, she knows instantly that she’ll crave this again. “ _Fuck_ ,” she gets out through clenched teeth.

”Such a dirty mouth,” he breathes in her ear. “I like it when you say that word.”

The confession has her moaning the word, his name, every filthy thing she can think of. Anything to rile him.

Reno shifts to hold her with one arm. His hand hits the tile with a slap as he sets a driving pace despite the vice grip of her thighs. She can’t think around the way he’s nailing her to the _fucking_ wall. And while she wants to savor it, she’s always been a little impatient and rash. In the span of a few minutes, she’s already chasing that release she’s been seeking since earlier.

Her fingers sink into his shoulders, looking for purchase so she can move with him. The slippery wall is incredibly _un_ helpful, she decides. Reno must agree because he pulls her with him as he sinks to the surface of a wooden bench at the end of the shower. Her knees hit one of the slats and she has just the leverage she was looking for. Her mouth finds his in a wild kiss as she sets her own pace.

The flow of her hips, the elegant curve of her torso as she rides him, all of it sets him ablaze. It’s written all over his face when she breaks the kiss to let him watch. She throws her head back with a husky moan as he trails kisses down her chest and closes his mouth over a peaked nipple. 

When she finds the friction she’s been seeking, her nails dig in enough she knows they’ll leave a mark. She drops her head back down, watching as he looks up a moment to let that smirk spread over his lips. This time, it reveals sharp canines. He knows she’s close and he's enjoying the show.

“That’s it Elena, come for me.”

The scrape of his teeth over her nipple sends her over the edge and she shatters around him. His name is a chant on her lips as pleasure unfurls. The savage way it rips through her body drags him right along with her. He shudders around a few erratic thrusts, exhaling a rough grunt against her skin. She holds onto him through it all, thinking smugly that she’s managed to come out on top, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update...still working on the office holiday party for day 5! It's more complex since there are more characters involved ~~because for once I need to write people other than the Turks~~. It'll probably be out in the next week.


	7. Holiday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent brings an unlikely date to the Shinra New Year’s Eve party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right. This took _ages_ so I apologize haha. It was for the Shinra Holiday 2020 prompt **Office Holiday Party**. I was feeling nostalgic thanks to a certain discord server 😉 so I decided to write a character I haven’t written since 2006. Strong hints of VinTi ahead thanks to that. 
> 
> This one was also inspired by the _stunning_ art Ushi created which you can find here (https://twitter.com/Ushijoy1/status/1339888284244185089). I couldn’t help but run with the idea of: everyone loves Tifa 😆
> 
> Enjoy!

Vincent Valentine wonders precisely what he’s gotten himself into. It’s just what he gets for spending so much time at Seventh Heaven over the holidays, he thinks, as he makes his way there again. All of the recent holiday family dinners have been nice, even if he’s reluctant to admit it. What isn’t so nice is the thought of attending a New Year’s Eve party at the new Shinra HQ downtown. _That_ is all Tifa’s fault.

It’d been a terrible idea to show her the invitation he received just as she’d indulged in her third glass of wine on Christmas Eve. _Oh, Vincent. You_ have _to go_ , he could still hear her say. She wasn’t interested in all of the logical reasons that was a bad idea. Only that she’d never been to a masquerade, let alone on New Year’s Eve. Tifa promptly invited herself along as his date, much to his chagrin. 

If he’s honest, he really isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s well aware of the changes in Tifa; he’s been around enough to notice the way her spirit seems lighter. She’s stopped waiting on Cloud, started living for herself. But what he’s less acquainted with is the effect that has had on _him_. The subtleties he’s begun to notice about her, the flirtiness he sometimes thinks he hears in her tone. It’s like standing on the edge of a dark cave and wondering if there is anything within. Maybe there’s a beautiful cavern of crystals or perhaps it’s empty apart from bats and cobwebs. He’s not sure he’s brave enough to find out which.

The flurry of activity inside Seventh Heaven pulls him from the thought. Patrons ready to welcome a new year while drinking seasonal beverages and beaming with laughter. Meanwhile, Cloud looks positively harassed from his perch behind the bar. Vincent supposes Tifa wrangled the man into an evening of tending the bar so that she could be _his_ date. It would explain the cold daggers Cloud is throwing Vincent with his eyes. 

Despite the iciness of Cloud’s stare, he approaches the bar and risks a hello.

“All this really necessary?” Cloud says by way of greeting.

“It goes a long way to restoring peace,” Vincent tells him. And it does—though it’s an interesting turn of events, to say the least. 

“Guess you were a Turk. And you did save the director, his partner.”

“And their president. Though I did have help with that.” 

“So why didn’t you invite Yuffie to go with you then?”

Is that a hint of jealousy? Vincent suppresses a smirk. “I’d rather not babysit throughout the entire evening.”

Cloud cracks a meager smile. He looks on the verge of a reply, but his eyes catch on the stairway leading down from the apartment above the bar. Vincent follows his gaze and there’s no question what’s drawn his attention. 

Tifa descends the stairs cautiously as the skirts of her dress swish around her feet. A gown the color of starlight hugs her curves, the gauzy fabric sweeping upward into delicate straps. Gloves encase her forearms, ending just above the elbow. She is a falling star in that moment. He tries to convince his eyebrows to slip back down, to wipe the gaping look off his face. He _should_ have way better composure than this. A glance at Cloud shows he’s in good company. 

Time seems to slow, but he’s thankful for that advantage when things go sideways. Tifa misses a step—no wonder considering the narrow stairway and the length of her dress. Vincent doesn’t hesitate to catch her as she lurches forward over the last few steps. A falling star indeed. But he’s managed to keep them upright even as she crashes into his arms and he sweeps her up.

Scarlet spills onto Tifa’s cheeks when she meets his eyes. He’s close enough to see the myriad of hues blending to create her unique eye color, to see each individual eyelash and the smokey shadow she’s applied. Her lips part, but she’s fumbling for something to say. Heat washes over his own cheeks as he realizes he’s held her longer than is necessary. 

Over Tifa’s shoulder, Cloud is trying to murder him with his eyes.

“Who knew something longer than a miniskirt could be so hazardous,” Tifa quips.

Vincent quickly sets Tifa on her feet where she busies herself with fixing her dress and hair. He watches the adjustments she’s making. Distractedly, he asks, “Are you all right?”

“Thanks to you.” Noticing his stare she queries, “Is this dress too much?” 

Vincent reels in his thoughts. “Absolutely not. You look lovely.”

She smiles over another, lighter blush. “Oh, Vincent.” She waves a hand at him. “You’re too kind. And that tux looks great on you!”

“I uh—thank you.”

“I thought this was a masquerade or something.” Apparently, Cloud is still there and he’s a welcome interruption.

“It is,” Vincent confirms. He produces two velvet domino masks and glances toward Tifa. “May I?”

“Of course, thank you.” 

Cloud watches his every move like a hawk when Vincent steps behind her. She helps him adjust the mask as he drapes it across where the bridge of her nose should be. He realizes belatedly that he’s missed a key styling factor.

“Actually, can we go under my hair with the straps?”

“Of course, hang on to the mask.”

The daggers are back in Cloud’s eyes as Vincent sweeps Tifa’s hair up with one hand. It’s like silk, smooth and cool beneath his touch. Or possibly like water, given that it tries to escape everywhere. He’s slightly perplexed by the process of trying to tie the straps beneath it and hold her hair up at the same time. An idea pops to mind.

“Cloud, would you mind?” 

He receives a hesitant look, but the blonde quickly caves and comes around to help. 

“Thanks, that’ll do the trick.” He reclaims the straps from Tifa’s hands and ties the mask in an efficient knot. “How’s that feel?”

“Perfect,” Tifa replies.

“Perfect,” Cloud echoes sarcastically. He lets her hair fall in a wave and storms back behind the bar.

Vincent wonders if he realizes just how clear his sullen mood is. If he’s begun to see that the boat he missed with all his dallying hasn’t just left the dock, it’s sailing across calm waters to a beautiful future all its own. 

Vincent ties his mask in place and offers an elbow to Tifa. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” she says through a grin. She gives Cloud a quick, sympathetic look. “You’ll do great!”

“I’ve got this.” Cloud seems to realize he should add something else. “Have fun tonight.”

Vincent doesn’t spare a backward glance as he guides Tifa out of the establishment, even if he’s feeling more than a little confused by the way she gets under his skin and turns him several shades of awkward. 

‘ ‘ ‘

The party is well underway when they arrive. The towering structure is all clean lines and glass. The floors are inky marble, something to absorb all that sunlight the windows let in. The cordoned entryway funnels guests to stand in front of a backdrop where a photographer snaps quick photos of each party. He’s amused at the idea of a photo with Tifa popping up on the fridge in the bar’s kitchen. And yet, something feels out of place about the idea. He manages to slip past the photo op, though he catches a touch of disappointment in Tifa’s eyes. 

Vincent locates a perfect distraction in the form of an open bar and starts that way. Perhaps a strong drink will ease away some of the tension pulling on his nerves.

“Something to drink?” he asks.

Tifa gives him a smile. “That’d be great.” 

Beside him, her eyes are roaming the large room at the heart of the building. She seems mesmerized by the openness of the first few floors. The space feels a bit like the crystal cavern he was imagining earlier. Endless and full of shining things, decorations shaped after shooting stars. 

They’ve nearly made it to the bar when a scatter of red hair materializes. 

Reno is also wearing a mask, but he’s difficult to miss given his signature style. Surprisingly, his tuxedo is fully buttoned and a silvery bow tie sits at his neck. What Vincent can see behind the mask shifts into a look of surprise.

“Well, well,” Reno drawls. “Apparently, the Ghosts of Christmas Past have even been invited.”

“Reno,” Vincent greets.

Reno gives him a nod, but his eyes drift to Tifa. The leisurely once over he gives her is far from subtle and Vincent clears his throat. 

“ _That_ is a fantastic fucking dress,” Reno says with a wicked grin. 

Tifa fidgets, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. “I—um, thanks.” 

A tense moment passes, but Reno seems to shrug it off. At least until he motions to Rude. “Hey, parter. Look who we’ve got here.” Reno nods Vincent’s way as Rude joins them. “Must be a full moon tonight."

"That's werewolves, Reno,” Vincent replies flatly. He exchanges polite nods with Rude. 

“I heard the president planned to invite former employees. Figured it was a way to get a few key people in the room.” 

This piques his interest. “Oh?”

Rude recovers from the slip well and diverts. “Didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

Tifa laughs lightly. “It is strange, isn’t it? So many ex-enemies in one room. I’ll admit, I was just curious to see what all the fuss over this new building is about. And I’ve never been to a masquerade.”

“Really?” Rude offers her a smile. “You look like you were made for this sort of thing.”

Vincent thinks that’s a very smooth compliment. One he really doesn’t necessarily approve of. He narrowly avoids an eye-roll. 

Tifa blushes fiercely. _Oh good_. Now everyone is making her blush. 

“Rude! That’s such a sweet thing to say.”

Rude’s cheeks color a touch and Vincent wonders if they should just declare it a blushing fest instead of a New Year’s Eve party. 

He tries to get things back on track. “What would you like to drink?” he asks Tifa.

“Hm?” Confusion settles over her features—and disappears just as quickly. “Oh! Right, we were headed to get a drink.”

“Lemme guess, gin and tonic?” Reno questions playfully.

“Or red wine?” Rude is asking.

Tifa giggles—actually _giggles_ —and seems inclined to let them keep guessing. Things are quickly derailing.

Let them play silly games. Vincent swiftly makes his way to the bar before anyone is the wiser. He knows she prefers whisky, sometimes in cocktails, so he orders a seasonal offering that looks promising and something simple just in case. 

Reno and Rude have moved on to rum or rosé when he sneaks the tumbler into Tifa’s hand. The surprise she wears is satisfying, her thanks the brush of a hand over his wrist and a smile he’ll hold onto for a spell.

“This smells different,” she declares after an evaluative sniff. 

The Turks regard her with interest. Tifa takes a modest sip and with three sets of eyes awaiting her reaction, she appears slightly unnerved. A lopsided smile curves her lips.

“It’s like drinking the season. The sweet hints of apple and spice, the strength of the bourbon, it’s such a good balance!” 

Vincent sips his whisky neat with a twist of orange in relief. “I’m glad you like it.”

Reno’s top lip pulls up, the look says he’s surprised by the choice of drink and finds something entertaining. Before he can voice whatever it is he’s thinking, distraction comes in the flash of silver-blonde hair. 

“Valentine, you came!” Rufus’s voice is tinged with astonishment. Behind his mask, his blue eyes catch on Tifa. “And you brought a guest.”

“I hope that’s okay,” Tifa says nervously. 

“Oh, more than okay. You look stunning, Miss Lockhart.” 

Rufus emphasizes his point with a flourish that keeps Vincent from glancing Tifa’s way. He doesn’t want to know if she’s blushing. _Again_. 

“I thought this dress might fit the theme,” Tifa offers, a little too excitedly. “Was the masquerade your idea?”

Rufus has been inching closer and now stands beside Tifa. The two Turks look crabby about the fact that the man of the hour has swooped their conversation. At least that gives him something to smirk about.

“It was. I thought it might mix things up a bit.” A dashing smile sweeps his lips before he adds, “And that dress rivals the beauty of the stars.”

 _Ifrit’s fiery balls_ , he’s going to shoot them all.

Rude looks to be wishing _he’d_ come up with that line and Reno just looks bored at this point.

Tifa seems to freeze beneath the weight of the attention she’s receiving. He thinks it should be like any night at the bar where some patron is always flirting with her. Somehow, she seems far more affected by Rufus Shinra’s compliment. Her voice is a touch breathless as she says, “And you look rather dashing in a tux and mask.”

Is she flirting back? Just being polite? Confusion settles like a blanket of fog in his mind.

“How kind of you to say. Cheers.”

Rufus clinks his glass with Tifa’s and the pair exchange a smile, momentarily thick as thieves for a couple of ex-enemies. But he’s not sure how much they know of one another, considering the Shinra mansion’s location in Nibelheim.

Rufus studies Tifa. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I’m honestly a little surprised to _be_ here.”

Except she did invite herself. But he sees an opening. “The invitation did come as a surprise.”

Rufus shoots Vincent a look, as though he’s forgotten about him. “I can see how it may have. But I hope the new year will bring peace and mend relations.”

“Miracles do happen this time of year,” Reno offers wryly. 

Everyone seems to have forgotten about him, several sets of eyes shoot his way. He shrugs and takes a swig from an amber bottle. 

“You know, you’re right. I think we could all stand a little peace, some good relations.” Tifa is wearing an honest smile. 

Of course, she’s willing to let them make amends. Especially since they’ve all been on friendlier terms since the Remnants. But as Vincent sees the amusement sparkling in Rufus’s eyes, he wonders what sort of _good relations_ the man is currently considering where Tifa is concerned. 

“Very true,” Rufus supplies. “Kind hearts like yours are a rarity these days.”

Before Tifa can reply to that little gem, Reno interjects. “A rarity? Kindest heart in Edge right here.” He slaps Rude playfully on the shoulder, giving the man a jolt. 

Rude straightens his glasses expertly beneath their scrutiny. “It was one owl. One time.”

There is clearly a story there but Vincent’s not about to ask. Tifa looks fairly curious, though she just glances between the two Turks as if waiting for more. 

Rufus seems to be put out by the interruption, even more so when it only spirals further. Tseng is at his shoulder, seemingly out of thin air.

“Sir, it’s time.”

Rufus downs his half-full glass in a quick couple of swallows. While Tseng waits, he regards his subordinates with a nod. His brown eyes drift Tifa’s way and Vincent steels himself for blush fest round five. 

It never happens, the man is apparently immune to her charms—or refuses to grovel like the rest of them. He merely nods, a slight pull at the corner of his mouth. 

_Wait_ , there. Tifa’s cheeks look rosier. She’s blushing at a mere smirk from Tseng. Admittedly, the man is rather fetching in a tuxedo. 

_What_?

Shaking his head, he attempts to clear his thoughts. Thoughts that could only be induced by how quickly he’s consumed his drink on an empty stomach, he tells himself. He’s been trying to nurse the runoff from the melting ball of ice that remains.

Tseng and Rufus have disappeared when he pushes back the distracting chatter in his mind. The remaining Turks are waved over to a table by Elena. 

Alone, at last, Tifa finds his eyes. 

“This is _so_ weird.”

He smirks. “You’ve read my mind.”

“It’s easy to forget we were once enemies.”

“For some. I think Rufus had a fair point about your heart, though.”

Tifa tilts her head, an unspoken inquiry. 

“Do you not realize how extraordinarily forgiving you are?”

“What else is there to do? Hold a grudge? We’ve joined forces a handful of times now. They’re clearly trying to be better. It’s time to give things space to change.”

“Imagine Cloud or Barret saying that.”

She worries her lip, trying to consider. “I can’t.”

“Exactly.”

Tifa shifts on her feet, likely thrown by the compliment within his words. “Should we find our seats?”

“I believe they’re printed on our invitation.”

Vincent fishes out the invite only to discover they’ve been assigned to the table where three of the Turks are now seated. _Great_. 

Elena’s presence, thankfully, doesn’t lead to anymore blushing. Dinner is kicked off with a speech from Rufus, it’s full of platitudes and thanks to his guests. There’s even a veiled nod to Tifa that has him rolling his eyes up to another planet.

Along the way, Reeve drops by. He squeezes their shoulders with familiarity. 

“Reeve!” Tifa is smiling up at him. “It’s good to see you! And I love that bow tie.”

“Thank you,” Reeve says with pride as he wiggles the bow tie adorned with cats. “A gift from Rufus, actually.”

“How thoughtful,” she replies. 

Vincent nods in agreement. “It suits you.”

“It had better, considering how much time he and I have been spending in meetings these days. You’d think I still worked here.”

As they share in a laugh, the music shifts from the kind meant for mingling to something with celebratory notes. Tifa seems to change with it, a subtle sway rippling through her instinctively. 

“You should get out there,” Reeve tells her with a nod toward the dance floor. 

“That would be fun.” Her reply comes with a pointed look his way, but Vincent hasn’t quite decided if he wants to dance. It has been decades. What if he’s not any good? Silence stretches.

“Come on, I’ll go with you” Reeve offers, holding a hand out to Tifa. 

Her eyes narrow on Vincent for a split second, but she accepts Reeve’s hand and follows him to the dance floor.

Elena leans over to him, her voice low as she says, “I think she wanted to dance with you.”

He wishes Odin would just pummel him for being such a coward, especially as Tifa shares the following dance with Rude. It's an elegant waltz that honestly surprises him, but it shouldn’t. It’s the same one that he learned as a recruit ages ago. 

Reno, however, follows that up with something so unwholesome he feels the urge to scrub his eyes. _Of course_. 

Elena gives Vincent a stern look. “Man, Vincent. When did you get so soft?”

He’s about to bite back when Elena grabs him by the wrist. She hauls him from the chair and drags him out into the fray. “Elena, what are you—” his tongue fails him as he realizes she’s dancing them closer to Reno and Tifa. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back even if you’re retired...or whatever it is. My thanks for the rescue,” Elena tells him with a smirk. 

Seconds later, she artfully hip checks Reno out of the way and sweeps him into motion before he can even complain. The look on his face is utterly priceless, wholly befuddled. 

Tifa covers her mouth with her hand, containing laughter that lights up her eyes. 

Her joy brings a smile to his lips and a little courage to his heart. Vincent holds a hand out to her. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” she comments facetiously. But she takes his hand anyway, her smile never fading. 

“Wasn’t sure where the line started.” 

Tifa scrunches her nose in amusement. She presses her palm gently to his chest and meets his eyes as they step into the rhythm of the music. He concedes that it’s worth the wait when he pulls her closer. 

“Rude says there’s going to be a big surprise at midnight,” Tifa shares, curiosity alive in her eyes. 

“Oh, yeah?”

She nods. “Think we can make it till then?” A smile crinkles her eyes. “Or are we getting too old?”

“You know me, back in the coffin by nine or I'll take it out on the villagers the next day." 

Tifa snorts. “The next day? More like that night, snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.”

“Coming from the girl Yuffie complained she had to roll over every night,” he teases. 

Tifa chuckles. “Oh gods, more like she kicked me over in her sleep.” Her smile turns wistful. “Sometimes I miss those days even though they were hard. Is that awful to say?”

“Horrible,” he tells her with a wink. “Actually, I understand. We had a strong purpose, we shared the kind of closeness only that type of journey can bring. With everyone scattered now, it can be easy to miss the companionship.”

“Absolutely.” Tifa’s voice softens considerably as she says, “but I do hope this year will bring peace even if we won’t all be together.”

“Me too.”

Vincent realizes the chat has lasted beyond the song. The music has shifted again, as if in tune with their conversation. 

Tifa shifts closer still and when her cheek touches his chest, he worries she’ll sense his heart trying to kick its way through his ribs. She sighs into the lapels of his jacket. 

The affection feels easy, like he’s found clarity at last. He can’t help but run his fingers through her hair as he holds her, barely staying with the slow rhythm of the song. Vincent catches several sets of very envious eyes from their table and cracks a triumphant smirk. 

“I suppose you’ll have to leave soon after this,” Tifa says, her voice muffled and a touch somber. 

He doesn’t recognize the hopefulness in his words as he says, “I don’t have to.”

Electricity shimmers along his spine as Tifa nuzzles in a moment longer, her arms snaking around his neck. And for the first time in a long time, he thinks there might be somewhere he belongs. 

As the song comes to an end, Tifa pulls back to look at him. Her smile is infectious and she squeezes his shoulders as her hands trail down his arms. His tuxedo suddenly feels a size too small. 

Now _he’s_ the one participating in blush fest round five. He reels it in. “Let’s grab another drink.”

“Sounds great, I’m parched from all that dancing.”

Despite the declaration, as they head back toward the bar Tifa is pulled back to the dance floor by a tsunami of suitors. Namely, Rufus Shinra. She gives Vincent an apologetic glance as she’s swept out to sea. By the time she emerges, she’s all but panting and looking for a drink. He presses a perspiring glass into her outstretched hand as she collapses into a chair. 

“How many of them have asked you out?” Vincent asks, amused by the way she touches the chilled drink to her temple before taking a sip. 

“None.” Tifa barely holds back a smirk when he gives her a disbelieving look. She caves. “Okay, so there were definitely hints at dates. But nothing outright.”

“They’re intimidated.”

“Right. Battle-hardened Turks and the president of the most prominent corporation around.”

Vincent shrugs. “Those things don’t save you from the potential sting of being rejected by a beautiful person.” 

_Shit_. Did that just sneak out?

Tifa blinks hard, tilting her head as her brows raise. “Vincent! What are you talking about?”

Does she really not know?

“How many more of them need to ask before you realize?”

She’s trying to hide her smile, but he’s not fooled. “You know, Tseng didn’t even give me the time of day.”

“Ha! You got a smirk from him, that’s akin to a proposal.”

“Oh gods.” Tifa smothers a laugh. “He truly is an enigma. Sort of like someone else I know.”

There’s a pointed look leveled his way. He feigns innocence. 

“I keep hoping he might ask me out, but I’m starting to think I’ll have to ask him,” she adds in his silence.

Wait...has he read her right then? He ventures a gamble, props his elbows on the table as he leans a little closer. “Isn’t this a date?”

Tifa mimics his posture. “Is it? If so, then it seems I was the one to ask, since I invited myself along.”

“Fair enough,” he says with a grin. 

Before they can come to any sort of conclusion, midnight somehow arrives. Holographic stars begin to fall from the ceiling, transforming the room into another world. The air shimmers with glittering confetti. Tifa gasps beneath wide eyes, the sparkle of lights dancing in their depths. The shower of stars shifts and the room comes to life with revelry. 

All around them, those who are coupled share a kiss. He’s close enough to her that he could lean just a little more and find out what it would be like to kiss her. And he thinks about it, the temptation strong enough to move him an inch. Tifa watches him closely. There’s an entire language in the way she’s looking at him, the way she’s moving. But he’s not sure if he’s fluent enough to make the right choice. All it takes is that moment of hesitancy for the vultures to descend. 

In a flurry of _Happy New Year’s_ and ecstatic shouts, they’re brought to their feet to join in the revelry. The celebration stretches, but it’s difficult to be present when he can’t stop thinking about the moment he’s missed. 

Despite the energy all around them, Tifa keeps finding his eyes. Whatever is between them feels magnetic now, inevitable. It both thrills and terrifies him. And then it confuses him. 

As the crowd starts to thin, the party fizzles out. It seems like the perfect time to make an escape but Tifa seems tentative. There’s still something she wants and it comes down to sentimentality. 

“It’s really that important?” he’s asking again. 

“For me it is. Just think, when we’re old and withered we can reminisce on all the memories.”

Even with his reservations, he likes the implications of that. “All right, let’s go.”

She’s giddy with victory and he just likes that she’s happy. They wade through the remaining party-goers, heading for the doors. Luckily, the photographer is still around and obliges a request for one last picture. 

Standing beside Tifa, smiling into a lens, all of it feels so peculiar. But the way she fits against his side, the brush of her hand around his waist, that’s effortless. He knows at once that he won’t easily get the feel of her out of his mind. 

As the flash pops, movement catches his eye. Just when he thought they could make a clean break, Reno is dragging Rude into frame with them. 

“Photos or it didn’t happen,” he jests to the tune of three sets of rolling eyes. 

And it would’ve been fine, really. He could’ve tolerated a photo with a couple of Turks. But as always, Reno is involved and things get out of hand. He’s even dragged Rufus into this. Granted, the man didn’t exactly have any objections to a photo with Tifa. 

By the time Vincent finds himself booted from the frame under the direction of the photographer, Tifa is the vision of a woman who could command the room. The gentle tilt of her head, the beautiful expression she’s wearing, the way her fingers perch on her hip. 

Rufus stands to her left, a hand on her opposite hip. Rude has claimed her free hand, sweeping it charmingly into his own. And Reno. Gods, he’s the picture of someone who worships the ground she walks on. He kneels just in front of Rude, one hand delicately resting on the back of her knee and the other gathering the fabric of her skirt. 

It’s a work of art, he admits reluctantly. 

Vincent wonders for the second time precisely what he’s gotten himself into. A bit more than he bargained for, he imagines. The hazards of falling for someone like Tifa Lockhart.

As the flash fades, Tifa gives the three of them a warm smile and an open invitation to drop by Seventh Heaven anytime. It’s no surprise and even he has to admit he’s enjoyed their company. The party turned out to be something nice, after all.

Apart from all the blushing, of course. 

Even so, as the evening draws to a close he’s hard-pressed to be anything but hopeful. This brand new year might be just what they all need to finally heal and discover a new purpose. 


End file.
